


Welcome to Wherever You Are

by Nightdog_Barks



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Friendship, Genital Torture, Hostage Situation, Prison, Psychological Torture, Rape, Recovery, Rescue, Revenge, Severe Beating, Torture, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-06-28
Updated: 2007-06-27
Packaged: 2017-10-18 08:33:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 33,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/186964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nightdog_Barks/pseuds/Nightdog_Barks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Old enemies can turn up in the most unexpected places, and when those enemies are in positions of power ... all bets are off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_**Welcome to Wherever You Are (1/11)**_  
Cross-posted to [](http://sick-wilson.livejournal.com/profile)[**sick_wilson**](http://sick-wilson.livejournal.com/).

 **TITLE:** Welcome to Wherever You Are  
 **AUTHOR:** [](http://nightdog-writes.livejournal.com/profile)[**nightdog_writes**](http://nightdog-writes.livejournal.com/)  
 **PAIRING:** House-Wilson, strong friendship, other OCs  
 **RATING:** A soft "R" for this chapter; subsequent chapters may be rated differently.  
 **WARNINGS:** None for this chapter.  
 **SPOILERS:** Yes, for the S3 Tritter Arc and how it ended.  
 **SUMMARY:** Old enemies can turn up in the most unexpected places, and when those enemies are in positions of power ... all bets are off.  
 **DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **AUTHOR NOTES:** This is strictly a by-product of the "What If?" machine that runs in my head. It's full of action/adventure, mysterious strangers, incredible coincidences, and suspenseful cliffhangers. At least, I hope it is. I also hurt Wilson. A lot. But I'll give fair warning when those chapters are posted.  
This fic is complete and will be posted a chapter at a time over the next eleven days. The total word count is somewhere around 30,000.  
Thanks as always to those absolutely incredible First Readers, who devoured each section and kept coming back for more.  
 **BETA: Silverjackal** , who said, "I'll keep that in mind."

  
 **Welcome to Wherever You Are**

 **Chapter One**

  
 _Acting on your best behavior,  
Turn your back on Mother Nature --  
Everybody wants to rule the world._

Wilson sang along, his fingers drumming lightly on the steering wheel. _House's theme song,_ he thought wryly. _He's always wanted to rule the lives of everyone around him, and now that he's beaten Tritter at his own game, he's worse than ever._

The entire ugly mess had come to a head a few months ago. When the trial itself had ended in a spectacular train wreck, with House getting off scot-free and the investigating officer disgraced, he'd been cocky and insufferable ever since. Of course, he was that way _all_ the time. It was just that now he was more so.

He felt his heartrate beginning to rise and forced himself to concentrate on the Nevada countryside rolling past. It had been good to get away from the conference in Las Vegas on this last day. He'd already given his speech, had done the meet-and-greet, led the symposium on MDR1 gene polymorphisms, wined and dined potential donors -- in short, he'd done everything that was required of him as the Head of Oncology at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. When his colleague and fellow McGill alum Dr. Winston Sen had tossed a set of car keys to him in the lobby of the hotel, Wilson had caught them and raised a questioning eyebrow.

"You look exhausted, Jim," Winston had said. "Take my car and get away from here for the rest of the afternoon."

Wilson's protest was automatic. "I appreciate the offer, but there's just not enough time." _Too much work still to be done, calls to make, need to check that class on thyroid neoplasms --_

"Come on," Dr. Sen cajoled. "You'll love it." He lowered his voice and continued speaking in a hushed, conspiratorial tone. "My birthday was this week, so Lira surprised me, rented something special. See the keys?" Wilson looked down, ran his thumb over a familiar symbol.

"A baby Benz," Winston grinned. "A sweet little CLK550, eight cylinders powered by three hundred eighty-two _big_ horses."

"Go on," he urged, still seeing doubt in Wilson's eyes. "It'll be good for you. I'm leaving tonight anyway and I can catch the hotel shuttle, so just check it back in at McCarran when you go home tomorrow. The rental papers are in the glove compartment."

Wilson stared at the keys for just a moment longer, then closed his hand over them. _Why not?_ he thought. _I'm always doing what other people expect of me, so why not do this one thing for myself?_

"Thanks, Win," he said, and meant it.

* * *

The sun was beginning to settle below the western horizon by the time Wilson turned the convertible around and headed back to the city.

He'd been driving for what seemed like hours, taking the back roads, enjoying the rush of wind in his face. The ever-present knots of tension in his muscles had gradually loosened, lulled away by the purring growl of the little car's engine. He had deliberately banished all thoughts of the hospital, of inter-departmental politics, of _House_ from his mind, and concentrated instead on the music coming from the radio and his own slightly off-key singing. He wasn't even sure where he was, but the lights of Vegas shimmered in the distance like the Emerald City and he knew it would be easy to find his way back.

There was a sudden cross-breeze, and a stray tissue that had been resting on the floorboards swirled up and brushed past his face on its way out of the car. Wilson cursed and made a grab for it, but it was already too late as the thin, gauzy piece of paper sailed out of the back of the convertible.

It was at that moment that the red and blue lights appeared in his rearview mirror.

Wilson cursed again.

* * *

"License and registration, sir."

The cop was tall and broad-shouldered. Even though the twilight was growing deeper and the shadows lengthening, he still wore a mirrored pair of aviator sunglasses that reflected Wilson's own face back at him.

"Here's my license, Officer," he said, "but this is a rental car and the contract's in the glove compartment --" Wilson started to reach across the center console.

 _"Sir!"_ the cop barked. Wilson froze. The patrol officer's right hand had drifted down and was hovering above the service revolver strapped to his hip.

"Please keep your hands where I can see them, sir."

"I ... uh ... yes. Sorry." Wilson laughed nervously. "Guess you guys can't be too careful nowadays."

The cop ignored him as he studied Wilson's license.

"This is a New Jersey driver's license," he said at last.

Wilson blinked.

"Um ... yes, it is."

The officer's eyes were unreadable behind the dark shades.

"Do you have any other identification, sir?"

Wilson opened his wallet again and pulled out his hospital photo i.d.

"What's going on, Officer?" he asked cautiously. "Is there something wrong?"

The cop had taken his hospital card and was holding it between two fingers as if it were something dirty.

"Yes sir," the patrolman said calmly. "I'd say doing eighty in a thirty-five mile-per-hour zone is something wrong."

Wilson's jaw dropped.

 _"What?"_ He twisted around in the driver's seat, looking behind him. The cop's partner was standing by the Mercedes' trunk, watching Wilson's every move. His right hand was resting on the grip of his pistol.

Wilson turned slowly back and licked his suddenly dry lips.

"I'm sorry ... I didn't see any signs," he said.

The officer tapped Wilson's license and hospital i.d. against the fingernails of one hand.

"Speed limit within the locality of Hellebore is thirty-five miles per hour, sir. Wait here a moment, please."

And with that, the cop turned on his heel and walked away.

Wilson watched in his rear-view mirror as the two patrolmen briefly conferred, and he swallowed again as the officer holding his identification disappeared into the black-and-white police cruiser.

 _"The locality of Hellebore ..."_

What locality? What did that even mean? There wasn't a sign of human habitation as far as his eyes could see, and he was pretty damn sure he hadn't passed any signs for any towns.

"Sir, would you please step out of the car?"

Wilson started. He hadn't even heard the patrol officer's return.

"Is there a problem with my i.d., Officer?" There couldn't be, Wilson knew that, but he needed to buy a little time while he tried to figure out what was going on.

"Sir, I'm asking you to step out of the car."

Moving slowly and carefully, Wilson started to unbuckle his seat belt.

"This is a speed trap, isn't it?" he said. "Okay, that's ... okay. I'd appreciate it if you could just go ahead and write my ticket now."

The cop's jaw worked, up and down, and for the first time Wilson realized the man was chewing gum.

"Sir," the officer said. His voice was very calm. "Out of the car. Now."

Wilson turned his head just enough to see the cop's partner. The other patrolman was still standing by the convertible's rear bumper, but his hand wasn't resting near his gun anymore.

He was in a two-fisted shooter's stance, and was aiming it directly at Wilson's head.

"What --" Wilson's voice caught, and he tried again. "This ... this is _crazy!"_

"No sir," the cop said, even as he opened the driver's door and reached inside.

"This is Hellebore."

* * *

Wilson lay on the cot trying desperately not to panic. The mattress (if such a pathetically thin piece of ticking could be called such) provided no protection against the cold lattice of the cot's metal frame that held it in place.

The cot. Which was in the jail cell he currently occupied. In the Hellebore County Jail. In Hellebore, Nevada.

Which was, as far as he could tell, the single worst place he could possibly be.

Wilson shivered, still trying to make sense of what had happened after the cops had pulled him over.

The broad-shouldered patrol officer had pulled him out of the car, cuffed his hands behind his back, frog-marched him to the police cruiser and stuffed him into the back seat.

He'd read him his rights, so familiar to Wilson's ears from movies and TV shows. His voice had been flat, like he didn't really care if Wilson was listening or not.

The other officer had gotten in, shut the door, and they'd driven off, leaving Winston Sen's birthday convertible parked on the very edge of the road like a lonely silver bullet.

They'd driven through the night, first along the main highway, then along twisty side roads, then caliche gravel paths, and finally a single long dirt trace that had led into the _locality_ of Hellebore.

The town was completely dark, the storefronts like ghostly false dollhouse constructs. They'd pulled in right beside a large frame building, hauled him out of the cruiser, pushed open a creaky front door and led him inside.

Inside it was light -- a spacious room, with lots of blue-uniformed cops milling around, and a blond, husky Sergeant behind the duty desk.

"Wilson," Wilson's arresting officer had stated, holding onto Wilson's left arm. "James E. Princeton-Plainsboro. _That_ one. We called him in."

The desk officer hadn't even looked up.

"Cell 2B," he said, making a notation in the logbook open before him.

And that was how Wilson had ended up here, on a narrow, uncomfortable cot, in a cold jail cell, in Hellebore fucking Nevada.

He shivered again.

This was wrong on so many levels.

* * *

No one had answered his questions. That's how they'd started out, as questions. They'd escalated into _forceful_ questions, then demands, then pleas.

None of them had worked.

"Where am I?"

Silence.

"What the hell is going on?"

Silence.

"Look, I need to know what's going on!"

Nothing.

"Hey, don't I get a phone call?"

They'd shoved him into the cell, closing the door behind him. The rough rattle of keys and a loud _click!_ told him they'd locked it.

"God damn it, _what's happening here?"_

They'd walked away down the hall, switching off the lights and leaving him alone.

In his cell.

* * *

"Get up."

Wilson shifted and groaned softly. His back was killing him.

"What time izzit?" he mumbled, not bothering to look at his wrist. His watch had been the first thing they'd taken from him. After that they'd taken his shoes and his tie, as he'd stood there in their grasp, breathing silently through his nose.

"Get up," the voice repeated. Wilson turned over and stretched. A uniformed guard tossed something onto his chest; it landed with a soft _flop!_ , and he jerked and then squinted.

Orange. A bundle of ... clothes. An orange prison jumpsuit.

 _No,_ some small awake part of his mind was chanting. _This is important, no, no, no._

"No," Wilson said. "I want a lawyer."

"Too bad," the guard said, and Tasered him.

* * *

"What are the charges?"

Wilson blinked, and swayed on his feet, kept upright only by the strong hands of his two arresting officers on either side of him. His wrists had been cuffed again, and he felt nauseous -- an aftereffect of the Taser shock, he knew, but the knowledge did nothing to lessen the sickness.

"Lawyer," he whispered, trying to swallow down the bile threatening to rise in his throat. "Want lawyer. I'm entitled ... to an attorney ..."

The cops ignored him, and addressed the judge instead.

"Speeding, resisting arrest, assaulting a police officer," one of the patrolmen declared.

"And littering," the other one added. "Don't forget the littering."

"Uh ..." Wilson tried to interrupt, but events were already moving past him.

"I think he was drunk and disorderly too, Judge," the first officer said.

Wilson twisted around, trying to take in the makeshift courtroom. There seemed to be daylight peeking in the one barred window, set high in the wall. Was it _dawn_ already? Had he really been here all night?

His orange jail uniform seemed to glow in the shifting light. The guard had calmly informed Wilson that if he continued to refuse to put it on, he'd simply be Tasered again, stripped, and the guards would put it on for him. Still reeling from the powerful shock and frightened at the prospect of the guards' hands on his body, Wilson had reluctantly complied.

"Not right," he muttered. "This's ... not right. Lawyer."

The guards' grips tightened on his arms, and he flexed his wrists, pulling at the handcuffs.

"Dr. Wilson!"

Wilson looked up. The judge, a heavy-set man whose jaw had been working the entire time they'd been there, was speaking to him.

"Dr. Wilson," the judge repeated. "James Wilson, Head of Oncology, Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital."

Wilson gasped, and his spirits rose. The judge knew who he was!

"Best friend of Dr. Gregory House."

Wilson's breath froze in his lungs.

The judge leaned closer, almost _crouching_ over his desk, and for the first time Wilson noticed his white hair, his piercing eyes.

"My nephew Michael told me you said you'd go to _jail_ for your friend, Dr. Wilson." The judge settled back in his chair and gathered his robes about him. "Well. Since you've waived your right to an attorney, you're going to get your wish. We'll see if Dr. House is as good a friend as you seem to believe he is."

The gavel came down. It was a hard, final sound against the surface of the wooden desk.

"Bail denied, remanded to Hellebore County custody. Thirty days hard labor. Case closed!"

"No," Wilson murmured, then _"No!"_ again. "Wait just a minute! I never waived my right to an attorney! I never even got a phone call!" He began to struggle against his captors. The patrol officers tightened their grip, and only now did he see his second arresting officer's black plastic nametag.

 _Tritter, Joseph K._

"God," he breathed. "Oh, God, _no!_ What's going on here? _Who are you people?"_ The voice of the judge rang in his ears. _My nephew --_

Wilson tried to kick, to twist away.

"Hold him," someone yelled. "Hold the bastard!"

There was a blue flash, an almost subliminal _zap!_ , and Wilson sank down into blackness.

  
~ [Chapter Two](http://community.livejournal.com/house_wilson/1583853.html?#cutid1)

 **NOTES:**  
Complete lyrics of "Everybody Wants to Rule the World" may be found [here](http://www.lyricsfreak.com/t/tears+for+fears/everybody+wants+to+rule+the+world_20135573.html).  
Wilson's conference topics are real; more information about them may be found [here](http://cancerres.aacrjournals.org/cgi/content/full/62/17/4955?ck=nck) and [here](http://www.sciencedirect.com/science?_ob=ArticleURL&_udi=B6VN6-4KST3FW-1&_user=10&_coverDate=08%2F31%2F2006&_rdoc=1&_fmt=&_orig=search&_sort=d&view=c&_acct=C000050221&_version=1&_urlVersion=0&_userid=10&md5=a0bfce94061380ed96521e5736d73a8c).


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Old enemies can turn up in the most unexpected places, and when those enemies are in positions of power ... all bets are off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> None.

_**Welcome to Wherever You Are (1/11)**_  
Cross-posted to [](http://sick-wilson.livejournal.com/profile)[**sick_wilson**](http://sick-wilson.livejournal.com/).

 **TITLE:** Welcome to Wherever You Are  
 **AUTHOR:** [](http://nightdog-writes.livejournal.com/profile)[**nightdog_writes**](http://nightdog-writes.livejournal.com/)  
 **PAIRING:** House-Wilson, strong friendship, other OCs  
 **RATING:** A soft "R" for this chapter; subsequent chapters may be rated differently.  
 **WARNINGS:** None for this chapter.  
 **SPOILERS:** Yes, for the S3 Tritter Arc and how it ended.  
 **SUMMARY:** Old enemies can turn up in the most unexpected places, and when those enemies are in positions of power ... all bets are off.  
 **DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **AUTHOR NOTES:** This is strictly a by-product of the "What If?" machine that runs in my head. It's full of action/adventure, mysterious strangers, incredible coincidences, and suspenseful cliffhangers. At least, I hope it is. I also hurt Wilson. A lot. But I'll give fair warning when those chapters are posted.  
This fic is complete and will be posted a chapter at a time over the next eleven days. The total word count is somewhere around 30,000.  
Thanks as always to those absolutely incredible First Readers, who devoured each section and kept coming back for more.  
 **BETA: Silverjackal** , who said, "I'll keep that in mind."

  
 **Welcome to Wherever You Are**

 **Chapter One**

  
 _Acting on your best behavior,  
Turn your back on Mother Nature --  
Everybody wants to rule the world._

Wilson sang along, his fingers drumming lightly on the steering wheel. _House's theme song,_ he thought wryly. _He's always wanted to rule the lives of everyone around him, and now that he's beaten Tritter at his own game, he's worse than ever._

The entire ugly mess had come to a head a few months ago. When the trial itself had ended in a spectacular train wreck, with House getting off scot-free and the investigating officer disgraced, he'd been cocky and insufferable ever since. Of course, he was that way _all_ the time. It was just that now he was more so.

He felt his heartrate beginning to rise and forced himself to concentrate on the Nevada countryside rolling past. It had been good to get away from the conference in Las Vegas on this last day. He'd already given his speech, had done the meet-and-greet, led the symposium on MDR1 gene polymorphisms, wined and dined potential donors -- in short, he'd done everything that was required of him as the Head of Oncology at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. When his colleague and fellow McGill alum Dr. Winston Sen had tossed a set of car keys to him in the lobby of the hotel, Wilson had caught them and raised a questioning eyebrow.

"You look exhausted, Jim," Winston had said. "Take my car and get away from here for the rest of the afternoon."

Wilson's protest was automatic. "I appreciate the offer, but there's just not enough time." _Too much work still to be done, calls to make, need to check that class on thyroid neoplasms --_

"Come on," Dr. Sen cajoled. "You'll love it." He lowered his voice and continued speaking in a hushed, conspiratorial tone. "My birthday was this week, so Lira surprised me, rented something special. See the keys?" Wilson looked down, ran his thumb over a familiar symbol.

"A baby Benz," Winston grinned. "A sweet little CLK550, eight cylinders powered by three hundred eighty-two _big_ horses."

"Go on," he urged, still seeing doubt in Wilson's eyes. "It'll be good for you. I'm leaving tonight anyway and I can catch the hotel shuttle, so just check it back in at McCarran when you go home tomorrow. The rental papers are in the glove compartment."

Wilson stared at the keys for just a moment longer, then closed his hand over them. _Why not?_ he thought. _I'm always doing what other people expect of me, so why not do this one thing for myself?_

"Thanks, Win," he said, and meant it.

* * *

The sun was beginning to settle below the western horizon by the time Wilson turned the convertible around and headed back to the city.

He'd been driving for what seemed like hours, taking the back roads, enjoying the rush of wind in his face. The ever-present knots of tension in his muscles had gradually loosened, lulled away by the purring growl of the little car's engine. He had deliberately banished all thoughts of the hospital, of inter-departmental politics, of _House_ from his mind, and concentrated instead on the music coming from the radio and his own slightly off-key singing. He wasn't even sure where he was, but the lights of Vegas shimmered in the distance like the Emerald City and he knew it would be easy to find his way back.

There was a sudden cross-breeze, and a stray tissue that had been resting on the floorboards swirled up and brushed past his face on its way out of the car. Wilson cursed and made a grab for it, but it was already too late as the thin, gauzy piece of paper sailed out of the back of the convertible.

It was at that moment that the red and blue lights appeared in his rearview mirror.

Wilson cursed again.

* * *

"License and registration, sir."

The cop was tall and broad-shouldered. Even though the twilight was growing deeper and the shadows lengthening, he still wore a mirrored pair of aviator sunglasses that reflected Wilson's own face back at him.

"Here's my license, Officer," he said, "but this is a rental car and the contract's in the glove compartment --" Wilson started to reach across the center console.

 _"Sir!"_ the cop barked. Wilson froze. The patrol officer's right hand had drifted down and was hovering above the service revolver strapped to his hip.

"Please keep your hands where I can see them, sir."

"I ... uh ... yes. Sorry." Wilson laughed nervously. "Guess you guys can't be too careful nowadays."

The cop ignored him as he studied Wilson's license.

"This is a New Jersey driver's license," he said at last.

Wilson blinked.

"Um ... yes, it is."

The officer's eyes were unreadable behind the dark shades.

"Do you have any other identification, sir?"

Wilson opened his wallet again and pulled out his hospital photo i.d.

"What's going on, Officer?" he asked cautiously. "Is there something wrong?"

The cop had taken his hospital card and was holding it between two fingers as if it were something dirty.

"Yes sir," the patrolman said calmly. "I'd say doing eighty in a thirty-five mile-per-hour zone is something wrong."

Wilson's jaw dropped.

 _"What?"_ He twisted around in the driver's seat, looking behind him. The cop's partner was standing by the Mercedes' trunk, watching Wilson's every move. His right hand was resting on the grip of his pistol.

Wilson turned slowly back and licked his suddenly dry lips.

"I'm sorry ... I didn't see any signs," he said.

The officer tapped Wilson's license and hospital i.d. against the fingernails of one hand.

"Speed limit within the locality of Hellebore is thirty-five miles per hour, sir. Wait here a moment, please."

And with that, the cop turned on his heel and walked away.

Wilson watched in his rear-view mirror as the two patrolmen briefly conferred, and he swallowed again as the officer holding his identification disappeared into the black-and-white police cruiser.

 _"The locality of Hellebore ..."_

What locality? What did that even mean? There wasn't a sign of human habitation as far as his eyes could see, and he was pretty damn sure he hadn't passed any signs for any towns.

"Sir, would you please step out of the car?"

Wilson started. He hadn't even heard the patrol officer's return.

"Is there a problem with my i.d., Officer?" There couldn't be, Wilson knew that, but he needed to buy a little time while he tried to figure out what was going on.

"Sir, I'm asking you to step out of the car."

Moving slowly and carefully, Wilson started to unbuckle his seat belt.

"This is a speed trap, isn't it?" he said. "Okay, that's ... okay. I'd appreciate it if you could just go ahead and write my ticket now."

The cop's jaw worked, up and down, and for the first time Wilson realized the man was chewing gum.

"Sir," the officer said. His voice was very calm. "Out of the car. Now."

Wilson turned his head just enough to see the cop's partner. The other patrolman was still standing by the convertible's rear bumper, but his hand wasn't resting near his gun anymore.

He was in a two-fisted shooter's stance, and was aiming it directly at Wilson's head.

"What --" Wilson's voice caught, and he tried again. "This ... this is _crazy!"_

"No sir," the cop said, even as he opened the driver's door and reached inside.

"This is Hellebore."

* * *

Wilson lay on the cot trying desperately not to panic. The mattress (if such a pathetically thin piece of ticking could be called such) provided no protection against the cold lattice of the cot's metal frame that held it in place.

The cot. Which was in the jail cell he currently occupied. In the Hellebore County Jail. In Hellebore, Nevada.

Which was, as far as he could tell, the single worst place he could possibly be.

Wilson shivered, still trying to make sense of what had happened after the cops had pulled him over.

The broad-shouldered patrol officer had pulled him out of the car, cuffed his hands behind his back, frog-marched him to the police cruiser and stuffed him into the back seat.

He'd read him his rights, so familiar to Wilson's ears from movies and TV shows. His voice had been flat, like he didn't really care if Wilson was listening or not.

The other officer had gotten in, shut the door, and they'd driven off, leaving Winston Sen's birthday convertible parked on the very edge of the road like a lonely silver bullet.

They'd driven through the night, first along the main highway, then along twisty side roads, then caliche gravel paths, and finally a single long dirt trace that had led into the _locality_ of Hellebore.

The town was completely dark, the storefronts like ghostly false dollhouse constructs. They'd pulled in right beside a large frame building, hauled him out of the cruiser, pushed open a creaky front door and led him inside.

Inside it was light -- a spacious room, with lots of blue-uniformed cops milling around, and a blond, husky Sergeant behind the duty desk.

"Wilson," Wilson's arresting officer had stated, holding onto Wilson's left arm. "James E. Princeton-Plainsboro. _That_ one. We called him in."

The desk officer hadn't even looked up.

"Cell 2B," he said, making a notation in the logbook open before him.

And that was how Wilson had ended up here, on a narrow, uncomfortable cot, in a cold jail cell, in Hellebore fucking Nevada.

He shivered again.

This was wrong on so many levels.

* * *

No one had answered his questions. That's how they'd started out, as questions. They'd escalated into _forceful_ questions, then demands, then pleas.

None of them had worked.

"Where am I?"

Silence.

"What the hell is going on?"

Silence.

"Look, I need to know what's going on!"

Nothing.

"Hey, don't I get a phone call?"

They'd shoved him into the cell, closing the door behind him. The rough rattle of keys and a loud _click!_ told him they'd locked it.

"God damn it, _what's happening here?"_

They'd walked away down the hall, switching off the lights and leaving him alone.

In his cell.

* * *

"Get up."

Wilson shifted and groaned softly. His back was killing him.

"What time izzit?" he mumbled, not bothering to look at his wrist. His watch had been the first thing they'd taken from him. After that they'd taken his shoes and his tie, as he'd stood there in their grasp, breathing silently through his nose.

"Get up," the voice repeated. Wilson turned over and stretched. A uniformed guard tossed something onto his chest; it landed with a soft _flop!_ , and he jerked and then squinted.

Orange. A bundle of ... clothes. An orange prison jumpsuit.

 _No,_ some small awake part of his mind was chanting. _This is important, no, no, no._

"No," Wilson said. "I want a lawyer."

"Too bad," the guard said, and Tasered him.

* * *

"What are the charges?"

Wilson blinked, and swayed on his feet, kept upright only by the strong hands of his two arresting officers on either side of him. His wrists had been cuffed again, and he felt nauseous -- an aftereffect of the Taser shock, he knew, but the knowledge did nothing to lessen the sickness.

"Lawyer," he whispered, trying to swallow down the bile threatening to rise in his throat. "Want lawyer. I'm entitled ... to an attorney ..."

The cops ignored him, and addressed the judge instead.

"Speeding, resisting arrest, assaulting a police officer," one of the patrolmen declared.

"And littering," the other one added. "Don't forget the littering."

"Uh ..." Wilson tried to interrupt, but events were already moving past him.

"I think he was drunk and disorderly too, Judge," the first officer said.

Wilson twisted around, trying to take in the makeshift courtroom. There seemed to be daylight peeking in the one barred window, set high in the wall. Was it _dawn_ already? Had he really been here all night?

His orange jail uniform seemed to glow in the shifting light. The guard had calmly informed Wilson that if he continued to refuse to put it on, he'd simply be Tasered again, stripped, and the guards would put it on for him. Still reeling from the powerful shock and frightened at the prospect of the guards' hands on his body, Wilson had reluctantly complied.

"Not right," he muttered. "This's ... not right. Lawyer."

The guards' grips tightened on his arms, and he flexed his wrists, pulling at the handcuffs.

"Dr. Wilson!"

Wilson looked up. The judge, a heavy-set man whose jaw had been working the entire time they'd been there, was speaking to him.

"Dr. Wilson," the judge repeated. "James Wilson, Head of Oncology, Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital."

Wilson gasped, and his spirits rose. The judge knew who he was!

"Best friend of Dr. Gregory House."

Wilson's breath froze in his lungs.

The judge leaned closer, almost _crouching_ over his desk, and for the first time Wilson noticed his white hair, his piercing eyes.

"My nephew Michael told me you said you'd go to _jail_ for your friend, Dr. Wilson." The judge settled back in his chair and gathered his robes about him. "Well. Since you've waived your right to an attorney, you're going to get your wish. We'll see if Dr. House is as good a friend as you seem to believe he is."

The gavel came down. It was a hard, final sound against the surface of the wooden desk.

"Bail denied, remanded to Hellebore County custody. Thirty days hard labor. Case closed!"

"No," Wilson murmured, then _"No!"_ again. "Wait just a minute! I never waived my right to an attorney! I never even got a phone call!" He began to struggle against his captors. The patrol officers tightened their grip, and only now did he see his second arresting officer's black plastic nametag.

 _Tritter, Joseph K._

"God," he breathed. "Oh, God, _no!_ What's going on here? _Who are you people?"_ The voice of the judge rang in his ears. _My nephew --_

Wilson tried to kick, to twist away.

"Hold him," someone yelled. "Hold the bastard!"

There was a blue flash, an almost subliminal _zap!_ , and Wilson sank down into blackness.

  
~ [Chapter Two](http://community.livejournal.com/house_wilson/1583853.html?#cutid1)

 **NOTES:**  
Complete lyrics of "Everybody Wants to Rule the World" may be found [here](http://www.lyricsfreak.com/t/tears+for+fears/everybody+wants+to+rule+the+world_20135573.html).  
Wilson's conference topics are real; more information about them may be found [here](http://cancerres.aacrjournals.org/cgi/content/full/62/17/4955?ck=nck) and [here](http://www.sciencedirect.com/science?_ob=ArticleURL&_udi=B6VN6-4KST3FW-1&_user=10&_coverDate=08%2F31%2F2006&_rdoc=1&_fmt=&_orig=search&_sort=d&view=c&_acct=C000050221&_version=1&_urlVersion=0&_userid=10&md5=a0bfce94061380ed96521e5736d73a8c).


	3. </b>  Welcome to Wherever You Are

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Old enemies can turn up in the most unexpected places, and when those enemies are in positions of power ... all bets are off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> None.

_**Welcome to Wherever You Are (3/11)**_  
Cross-posted to [](http://sick-wilson.livejournal.com/profile)[**sick_wilson**](http://sick-wilson.livejournal.com/).  
 **TITLE:** Welcome to Wherever You Are  
 **AUTHOR:** [](http://nightdog-writes.livejournal.com/profile)[**nightdog_writes**](http://nightdog-writes.livejournal.com/)  
 **PAIRING:** House-Wilson, strong friendship, other OCs  
 **RATING:** PG-13.  
 **WARNINGS:** No.  
 **SPOILERS:** Yes, for the S3 Tritter Arc and how it ended.  
 **SUMMARY:** Old enemies can turn up in the most unexpected places, and when those enemies are in positions of power ... all bets are off.  
 **DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **AUTHOR NOTES:** None.  
 **BETA:** My First Readers.

 **Chapter Three**

  
"I sense a great disturbance in the Force," House intoned.

His three fellows glanced up; House gazed back at them, unsmiling and serious.

Foreman started to lean back in his chair, shaking his head in amusement, but something in House's tone stopped him.

Chase raised an eyebrow and set aside the pencil he'd been twirling idly between two fingers.

Cameron rested her chin on one hand and waited.

The silence lengthened.

"Oooo-kay," Foreman said at last. "Are you going to tell us what that means or do we have to jump through hoops again like you've been making us do all week with this patient?"

House's face scrunched up as he pretended to look around the conference room.

"Nope, no circus tents around here." He sighed. "God, you guys are no fun." The patient's file lay open before House on the table; he slid it across to Chase. "Latest test results. Cameron solved the case."

"Oh!" Cameron sat up straighter in her chair, a pleased look on her face. Foreman rolled his eyes.

"And you called us in here on a weekend to tell us this?"

"Hey!" House protested. "I thought you guys would be interested -- I mean, this is such a _rare_ occurrence." He kept talking, even as his fellows stood up and started gathering their things.

"This is like spotting an ivory-billed woodpecker! Seeing the Loch Ness Monster! Wait a minute! Where's everybody going?"

"Good _bye,_ House," Foreman called over his shoulder. "Have a good weekend -- if you can."

"Cold," House muttered. "So cold." He sat back and began to twirl his cane. "Remind me to fire you all later!" he called to their retreating backs.

God, he couldn't wait for Wilson to get back.

* * *

Wilson shifted on the cot and hissed in a breath as his back and shoulder muscles registered their objection. He lay still, trying to take in his surroundings. Seeing as how it was apparently nighttime, and _dark_ , it wasn't easy.

The few things he _could_ deduce were obvious: he was lying on his stomach, dressed only in a pair of shorts. An IV needle was taped to the back of his right hand and his wrists were bandaged. It felt like cool salve had been carefully spread over his injured back.

There was a ring of cool metal around his right ankle; he flexed his leg and heard the faint clink of a steel chain.

He was shackled to the bed.

"Oh, God," he whispered, and tried to push himself up. A shadow moved beside him.

"Hey, hey," a soft voice soothed. "It's okay."

Wilson's head was spinning.

"House?"

The voice chuckled. "No, just the camp doctor," it said. Wilson fell back onto his stomach.

"What ..." It was hard to think, to make his mouth form the right words.

"What am I doing?" the voice supplied, and Wilson managed to twist his head enough to see the voice's owner. It was a tall man, seated in a folding lawn chair by Wilson's cot.

"You've probably noticed the IV," the doctor said. "I'm giving you fluids for dehydration, some broad-spectrum antibiotics -- don't worry, I know you're allergic to penicillin," he reassured as Wilson started in alarm, "and just a bit of Toradol for the pain."

Wilson considered the doctor's words. These were all good things, and yet --

"Help me," he whispered, and sensed rather than saw the surprise on the other man's face.

"I _am_ helping you," he replied. He leaned forward, obviously worried. "Are you experiencing mental confusion? Dizziness?"

"No," Wilson said, struggling to make the doctor understand. He was a fellow physician, he _had_ to help him ...

"Need to get out," he ground out. "Don't belong here."

The doctor was silent.

"Arrested -- trumped-up charges. No phone call -- no lawyer. Sentenced -- without trial." The shadowy form next to him didn't move, and Wilson pressed on, his voice growing more desperate. He had to get through to this man ...

"Guards beat me -- some kind of crazy _lessons!"_ His mouth was dry and he licked his lips. "Warden ... warden assaulted me." He stopped, praying the doctor would know what he was talking about so he wouldn't have to say the actual word.

There was a short silence, and then the doctor leaned back in his chair. The aluminum frame made a soft _screeing_ sound.

"Well," he said at last. "I'm afraid I can't help you there."

Wilson's stomach clenched. It couldn't be.

"You see," the doctor continued, "The Warden is my brother. I'm Dr. William Tritter." He laid a large, cool hand on the back of Wilson's neck.

"Try and get some rest," he said. "I'll be back later to check on you."

* * *

House laid his cane beside on the piano bench and tried to decide what to play first. A thunderstorm had swept through Plainsboro last night, leaving a pleasant, almost fall-like crispness to this Sunday spring morning.

His fingers twitched. Perhaps a little Pachelbel? Nah, too cliched. Bach? More trouble than it was worth, and besides, he didn't feel particularly Baroque today. Maybe something Wilson would like ...

House sighed a little. He almost wished now he hadn't persuaded Wilson to stay in Vegas over the weekend, but it was clear he'd needed the break. He wondered for a moment what Wilson was doing right now -- probably swimming in the hotel pool, or playing golf, or hitting up one of the scantily-clad showgirls ... he eyed the cellphone, closed and silent on the piano top, and successfully resisted the urge to pick it up and hit the first number on speed dial. He'd sworn he was going to leave Wilson _alone_ this time, let him get some real rest without fretting in his Wilsonian mother-hen way over whatever House might be doing. Or not doing, which was sometimes worse.

Oh well. Wilson's flight was tomorrow night, and he'd be back at work on Tuesday.

House grinned. Knowing Wilson, he'd want to tell him all about his boring oncology conference.

He wiggled his fingers, rested them for a moment on the keyboard, and began to play _Oh, What A Beautiful Morning._ Yep, this was something right up Wilson's alley, perfect for a vacation day in Vegas --

 _Oh, what a beautiful morning,  
Oh, what a beautiful day.  
I've got a beautiful feeling,  
Everything's going my way._

  


* * *

Wilson made a slow, careful circuit of the camp.

It was quiet, with only a few other red-clad prisoners out and about -- he assumed the others were in the mess tent that served as a makeshift church.

The doctor had told him Sundays were a day of rest here before he'd released him from the infirmary.

There were no walls to this prison -- they didn't need any. The huge rolls of barbed wire he'd seen yesterday were deterrent enough. Their spurs and razor tips were a formidable barrier; there was no way a man could fight his way through the coiled, spiny thicket without being cut to pieces. Wilson stepped forward, trying to peer through the thick wire bundles. Maybe there was another way out, another road out there --

An automatic rifle barked and stuttered. The dry dirt in front of his feet exploded as bullets stitched an angry, volcanic line in the earth. Choking down a scream, Wilson scrambled to get back. His feet tangled, and he continued his frantic retreat on his ass, scooting like some kind of human crab, not stopping until he bumped into something hard and unyielding. He looked up.

Red. Another prisoner.

Wilson was vaguely aware of raucous laughter coming from the nearest guard tower.

"New here, aint'cha?" the prisoner said.

* * *

"You got too close to the dead line," the other prisoner explained. "You're lucky Moe's on duty in that tower today. He's the best shot in that group. Curly's killed guys with _his_ warning shots."

The two men were walking together through the camp, Wilson trying to take in everything the inmate was telling him.

"Curly? Moe?" Wilson still felt a little dazed from the gunshots.

"What some of us call the guards. Terms of ... endearment."

"Oh. What's your name? I'm --"

"We don't have names here," the other man said quickly. "I'm 2254."

Wilson hesitated. "Do you mind if I call you Tooey?"

The prisoner snorted, and smiled just a little. He was a short guy, built like a fireplug, with a shock of red hair and a few stray freckles sprinkled across his nose and cheeks.

"Tooey," he agreed. "And I'll call you --" He looked Wilson up and down, taking in the red shorts and t-shirt that all the prisoners wore, the ugly pink flip-flops, Wilson's sunburnt, peeling skin.

"New Guy," he decided.

* * *

"But I don't understand," Wilson said. "What _is_ this place? Why are there so few prisoners and so many guards? How can I get out?"

"Whoa, whoa, slow down," Tooey said. "One question at a time."

They were sitting on the ground, side by side, in the shade of the mess tent.

"In the eyes of the State of Nevada, this is a perfectly legitimate labor camp, part of the Nevada Department of Corrections. In _reality,_ this is the Tritter family's little kingdom -- they're skimming profits, padding contracts, and using this as a private prison for anyone who crosses them." Tooey picked up a pebble and began tossing it in the air, catching and tossing, again and again.

"The Tritters built this place from the ground up, to their specifications. They're crazy on the subject of security -- that's why there's so many guards, so much firepower. The damn Warden's office is honeycombed with secret passages, just like some medieval castle."

Wilson watched as a pair of black-uniformed guards dragged an unconscious prisoner across the clearing.

"But where does the money come from? To buy the food? To pay the guards?"

Tooey snorted again, but this time it was without humor.

"Homeland Security," he said bitterly.

Wilson stared at him.

"Oh yes," Tooey growled. "Last year Nevada got a little over twenty million dollars. Vegas alone received well over seven mil. Where do you think that kind of money goes? Better training for the local police? More equipment? Better armor? More TSA screeners at your friendly neighborhood airport?" He shook his head. "The right hands in the right pockets, the right names whispered in the right ears, and the wrong people can build empires on that money."

The guards had stopped, seemingly in the middle of the camp clearing. They allowed their prisoner to slump to the ground, and Wilson narrowed his eyes as he saw one of the guards pull on a pair of thick leather gloves. The uniformed man crouched, working at something in the dirt.

"And as for the guards ..." Tooey was still talking. "The Tritters pay well. Supply a comprehensive benefit package. Hell, they even have a pension plan. You think Wal-Mart can do better?"

The guard was standing again -- he'd _raised_ something out of the ground, something large and square ...

A door. A metal door.

Working together, the two guards hauled the prisoner up, grasping him under the shoulders and by the ankles. They heaved him forward. The man disappeared, and it took a moment for Wilson to realize they'd thrown the man into what must be a concealed pit of some kind.

"Plus, there's that whole dynamic of giving sadists and assholes guns and uniforms," Tooey said.

The metal door clanged shut. The first guard crouched again, presumably to lock it.

Tooey stopped talking and followed Wilson's gaze.

"Hotbox," he said softly. "You _really_ don't want to end up there."

He tossed the pebble to the ground.

* * *

Wilson poked disconsolately at his lunch.

White bread. Bologna. A pale orange square of processed cheese. A green apple and a plastic bottle of water completed the tray. He looked up to see Tooey's amused expression.

"Just think," the other man deadpanned. "Today you got the good stuff."

Wilson arched one eyebrow at him.

"It's Sunday. You get two slices of bologna on Sundays."

He picked up his own sandwich and took an exaggerated bite.

"Mmmmmm," he said around the mouthful of bread, mystery meat, and cheese. "Bologna."

* * *

"So how'd you know all those facts and figures?" Wilson demanded. "The money from Homeland Security, the Tritters' activities?"

They were walking in the camp clearing again. The sun was at the height of its zenith, and both men were sweating. Wilson tried not to think about the prisoner in the hotbox.

"I was an accountant," Tooey said. "Back in the world."

"How'd you get here?"

Tooey shook his head. "Bad question," he muttered. "But I'll answer it anyway. I was cooking the books for the Tritters. Then they saw there was money to be made in the prison business. I'm no saint, but I knew this wasn't right. I threatened to go to the Feds, to the I.R.S. I wound up here."

Wilson's mouth was very dry.

"How long?"

"Year and a half." Tooey took a deep breath. "Hey, see that building?" Wilson looked around. He was pointing at the long, low barracks.

"Guards' quarters," Tooey said. "They get air conditioning."

The window units hummed in the dry, still air.

* * *

"So what tent are you in?"

They were sitting again, hiding from the sun. Wilson fished out the small scrap of paper the doctor had given him that morning.

"One."

 _"One?"_

Tooey had twisted around and was staring at him, wide-eyed.

"Shit! What the hell did you -- no. No, I don't want to know. One. Jesus Christ."

"What?" Wilson was completely bewildered. "What are you talking about?"

"That's the VIP tent." Tooey's voice was caustic and grim. "Fewer prisoners. More guards. Last I heard, they chain you to your bed at night." His eyes were blue, Wilson noticed suddenly.

"Damn, New Guy. You must've _really_ fucked up."

* * *

Dinner was the same as lunch.

The two men took one last walk around the camp. As far as Wilson could tell, the prisoner in the hotbox hadn't been released yet.

"So how do I get to use a phone here?" he asked.

Tooey shook his head. "No phones. This place is a dead zone -- no cellphone signal, and the Tritters said no landlines."

"How the hell do they communicate?"

"Satphones. Warden's office, infirmary, guards' barracks. Might be a couple of others somewhere -- I'm not sure. Relax. It's not like you'll be using one."

They walked some more.

"No, see -- I _need_ to use one. This is all wrong. I shouldn't be here."

Tooey barked out a short, sharp laugh.

"New Guy, it's not like _any_ of us should be here. Sure, I should probably be in a Federal pen for fraud, but not _here."_

"But --"

Tooey rounded on him. His eyes were very blue, and filled with despair.

"Haven't you been paying attention? You think you'll be here for thirty days? They'll let you out, and say 'Go forth, and sin no more?' That's the problem -- you think you're still in the United States, that someone here might be reasonable and actually _listen_ to you."

He leaned forward, until he was right in Wilson's face.

"They told me _I'd_ be here for thirty days. That they just wanted to scare me, so I wouldn't turn them in. That was over a year ago!" Tooey pulled away and swiped a hand across his face. "I had no wife, no kids. No real friends, just a job. The Tritters have a whole stableful of dirty cops in their pockets -- anybody who asked about me was told they were still investigating but there were no new leads. No new leads. Ever."

"Believe me, New Guy. You're here for the long haul."

And he turned on his heel and walked away, his flip-flops making soft flapping noises in the dirt.

* * *

One guard kept a watchful eye as another guard snapped shut the cuff around Wilson's left ankle. The other bracelet was already locked to the metal cot frame. Their prisoner secured, the two guards left.

Wilson looked around. _I'm really a VIP here,_ he thought wryly. The other cots were all empty. He dropped his head back against the rough pillow for a moment.

"What if I need to use the bathroom in the middle of the night?" he asked. There was no answer, not that he had expected one.

He took the small green apple that he'd saved from dinner and bit into it with a moist crunch.

The flesh was sour on his tongue.

When he'd finished, he looked at the core for a moment, then carefully pried out two of the tiny brown seeds.

Leaning over the edge of the cot, Wilson used his left index finger to scoop out a shallow depression in the dry, packed earth.

He deposited the seeds in the hole, and covered it back up.

Lying back on the cot, he covered his eyes with his forearm and tried not to think. About anything.

He could hear the guards chatting quietly just outside. He wondered what House was doing. What Cuddy was doing. Back in the world.

The lights went out.

  
~ [Chapter Four](http://community.livejournal.com/house_wilson/1589301.html?#cutid1)

  
 **NOTES:**  
The full lyrics to "Oh, What A Beautiful Morning" from the Rodgers & Hammerstein musical _Oklahoma_ may be found [here](http://www.lyricsondemand.com/soundtracks/o/oklahomalyrics/ohwhatabeautifulmorninglyrics.html).  
A fascinating article on Homeland Security money in Nevada is [here](http://www.reviewjournal.com/lvrj_home/2006/Jul-13-Thu-2006/news/8468645.html).

  



	4. </b>  Welcome to Wherever You Are

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Old enemies can turn up in the most unexpected places, and when those enemies are in positions of power ... all bets are off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> None.

_**Welcome to Wherever You Are (4/11)**_  
Cross-posted to [](http://sick-wilson.livejournal.com/profile)[**sick_wilson**](http://sick-wilson.livejournal.com/).  
 **TITLE:** Welcome to Wherever You Are  
 **AUTHOR:** [](http://nightdog-writes.livejournal.com/profile)[**nightdog_writes**](http://nightdog-writes.livejournal.com/)  
 **PAIRING:** House-Wilson, strong friendship, other OCs  
 **RATING:** A strong "R" for a graphically unpleasant scene of violence.  
 **WARNINGS:** Yes. See "Rating" above.  
 **SPOILERS:** Yes, for the S3 Tritter Arc and how it ended.  
 **SUMMARY:** Old enemies can turn up in the most unexpected places, and when those enemies are in positions of power ... all bets are off.  
 **DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **AUTHOR NOTES:** None.  
 **BETA:** My awesome First Readers, with especial thanks to [](http://deelaundry.livejournal.com/profile)[**deelaundry**](http://deelaundry.livejournal.com/) and [](http://blackmare-9.livejournal.com/profile)[**blackmare_9**](http://blackmare-9.livejournal.com/) for pelting me with cellphones until I got it right, and also to **Dee** for contributing a paragraph that was so much better than what I had.

 **Chapter Four**

  
Bright and early Monday morning, House strode into the main lobby of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, swinging his cane, whistling a cheery tune, and carrying a large paper bag of breakfast goodies for his fellows.

Except that he didn't.

It was close to eleven a.m., he was limping, he growled at everyone who wished him a good morning (which, admittedly, was hardly anyone), and his breakfast had consisted of a can of Red Bull and two Vicodin.

He stepped into the elevator and viciously poked the button for the fourth floor. He had clinic duty this morning, his leg ached, and a pigeon had shat on his motorcycle jacket. His day couldn't get much worse.

The only bright spot was Wilson's flight arriving tonight. Maybe he'd be able to catch him on the phone before seeing him at work tomorrow.

* * *

Wilson's bed was moving.

 _Earthquake,_ he thought muzzily. Then -- _no earthquakes in New Jersey._

He opened his eyes.

A guard was kicking one of the cot legs, jarring the bunk with each blow. Another guard was at his feet, unlocking the ankle cuff.

"Up and at 'em," the first guard said laconically. "You got a full day ahead of you."

Outside, Wilson could hear the prison camp coming to life -- people talking and shouting, the sound of pots and pans clanging. Breakfast smells wafted through the already-warm air.

His heart sank. As much as he'd hoped right before falling asleep, it hadn't been a dream.

* * *

Wilson hesitated at the entryway to the showers.

It was obvious he was supposed to disrobe -- a large, wheeled laundry bin was just inside the tent flap, and it was already full of red shorts and t-shirts.

There was a none-too-gentle jab in his ribs.

"Take 'em off," a guard drawled, his truncheon ready for another jab if need be. "You ain't got nothin' nobody here ain't seen before, and if you do then _I_ wanna see it."

* * *

The floor was concrete, with drains set every few feet. The showerheads were attached to a row of wooden posts, and the water flow was apparently controlled from one handle on each post.

There were a few other prisoners there -- two skinny white guys, their farmers' tans standing out against their pale torsos, and one enormous black man, built like a tank, his skin gleaming ebony under the shower spray.

Wilson thought of all the stupid jokes he'd ever heard that had the punchline "Don't drop the soap." Suddenly they didn't seem so funny.

Taking a deep breath, he stepped forward.

None of the other inmates paid Wilson any attention. Feeling slightly more confident, he picked up a bar of soap from its holder on the shower pole. It was yellow and smelled powerfully of a strong antiseptic. He twisted the faucet handle.

 _"Ah!"_ Wilson yelped; the water pouring from the showerhead was _freezing._

The tank next to him gave a low, amused chuckle. "Don't worry," he rumbled. "You'll get used to it after a few months."

* * *

Wilson toweled off as best he could. The rectangular piece of red cloth from the stack by the exit was thin and threadbare; he knotted it around his waist as he entered the next section of the tent.

There was a tub of cheap plastic shavers, still in their clear cellophane wrappers. He took one and claimed a place in front of a sink -- one of many, arranged in a row just like the showers. There was more soap here, and he shaved slowly and carefully. His face had been mostly protected by his arms the day before ( _don't think about that_ ) so his cheeks weren't too sunburned.

"Hurry it up," a guard snapped, and Wilson started. He wondered briefly if there were guards in the bathrooms too, and decided there probably were.

"I'm done," he said softly, wiping the last of the soap from his face.

"Good. Get dressed," the guard said, and used his truncheon to point to another laundry bin, identical to the first, piled with clean red t-shirts and shorts.

Wilson quickly found his size, and pulled on the fresh clothes.

Morning ablutions, it seemed, were over.

* * *

Breakfast was powdered scrambled eggs, reconstituted with tepid tap water, two slices of dry, toasted white bread, unadorned with butter or any other spread, and four strips of rubbery bacon that tasted like they'd come off the ass end of a muddy pig. And an orange.

"Eat up, New Guy," a familiar voice said sardonically. "Breakfast is the most important meal of the day."

Wilson looked up from the horror on his tray to see Tooey slipping into the seat opposite. He quickly glanced away, faintly ashamed of the relief that had immediately flooded his system at the sight of a friendly face.

"So what's on your agenda for the day?" Tooey asked as he stole a bacon strip from Wilson's plate. "Places to go, people to see?"

"I don't know," Wilson said. "My -- the guard just said I had a full day ahead of me."

"Ah." Tooey frowned as he chewed the inadequately-smoked pork. "Probably a work detail, then. Places to go, rocks to break." He smiled faintly at Wilson's shocked expression. "Everything here's make-work," he said. "They have to do _something_ with us, make it look good."

Wilson picked at his dry eggs. The plastic fork felt light and useless in his hand.

"What about that guy?" he asked, remembering what he'd seen yesterday. "The guy they threw in the ... the hotbox."

Tooey shook his head slowly.

"You ask a _lot_ of questions, New Guy," he said. He sighed and wiped at his mouth with a napkin. "Sentenced to a week in the box. He'll be lucky if he makes it through the fourth day."

Wilson put down his fork. Suddenly he wasn't hungry anymore.

"What did he -- what did he do?"

"He tried to escape."

A pair of shadows loomed over the table; Wilson saw Tooey glance up and then look quickly down and away. A large hand squeezed Wilson's right shoulder.

"Breakfast's over," the guard said.

* * *

"Dr. Cuddy?"

The female voice was timid; Cuddy didn't recognize it and glanced at the caller i.d. on her office phone.

 _Human Resources/Personnel._

"Oh, God," she groaned. "Don't tell me there's been another harassment complaint." She was going to kill House, she really was this time. She'd already had to threaten, cajole, and finally bribe him into doing his clinic hours this morning, and he'd kept those insolent blue eyes fixed on her the entire time. She'd be so glad when Wilson got back; Wilson could get House to do things when no one else could.

"What?" the voice squeaked. "No, Doctor, this is about something else."

Cuddy checked her watch. Meeting in two -- no, _one_ minute.

"There was a rather unusual request over the weekend for medical records."

"Yes?" She tapped her fingers on the desktop. Why couldn't people ever get straight to the point anymore?

"Well, we've had requests like this before, but not for a while, and when we get these kinds of requests, they're usually for Dr. _House's_ records, but this one --"

"Let me get this straight," Cuddy interrupted impatiently. "You're saying this has nothing to do with Dr. House?"

"No, Doctor, but the request was from the Hellebore County --"

Another line on her phone buzzed. _Meeting._

"Look," Cuddy said. "Send me an email or write it up and send it interoffice mail and I'll take a look at it. I'm sorry, but I've got to go now."

"But --"

She hung up. Gathering up her papers and notes, Dr. Cuddy strode swiftly from her office. Couldn't keep potential donors waiting. This was important.

In another part of the hospital, a young woman looked at the phone in her hand, the dial tone buzzing like an angry insect.

"-- it was for Dr. Wilson's records," she finished, although there was no one there to hear her.

* * *

Wilson's steps slowed as he realized the transport truck was parked, engine running, next to the locked door of the hot box.

As he drew closer, he could see that the door was constructed of steel sheet metal. In the center was a narrow, barred window, and on one side a small, hinged square. A plastic water bottle sat next to it, a length of twine tied around its neck, and Wilson understood the little door set into the larger one was for lowering food and water to the prisoner trapped inside.

 _"Let me out,"_ someone called, and it took Wilson a moment to realize the voice was coming from underground. From the prisoner in the box.

 _"Please let me out. I'll be good. I will. Please, oh God, it's hot, please let me out."_

The voice was weak, and Wilson stared at the barred window in the ground.

 _"Water,"_ the voice pleaded. _"Please, water."_

There were two guards on duty at the box.

"You had your water this morning, asshole," one of them shouted. "No more water for another two hours."

 _"Water! Please let me out! Water!"_

"Ah, Christ," one of the guards muttered. "Shut the damn grate so we don't have to listen to that all day."

His partner grunted his agreement and used the toe of his boot to slide closed the narrow window's metal cover.

The man underground began to scream at the dying of the light. When the slot was finally covered, all that could be heard was a muffled noise, like the roar of a faraway crowd.

One of Wilson's guards shoved him forward.

"Show's over," he said. "Get in the truck."

* * *

Wilson picked up a rock and carried it to the other side of the road. The ankle fetters forced him to take short, calculated steps, and he picked his way across the tarry blacktop carefully, trying to avoid the cracks in the asphalt surface. It was clear there'd been no vehicles on this road for a long time. He set the rock down on the slowly-growing pile, recrossed the road, and picked up another rock.

 _Why did the prisoner cross the road?_ he thought. _To get another fucking rock._

It was what he and his fellow three prisoners had been doing for the past hour -- picking up rocks from one pile and moving them to another.

Wilson was hot. His back hurt, he was covered in dirt and rock dust, and his fingers and hands were scraped and bleeding.

The four guards and their boss sat in the cool shadow of the truck, drinking water from plastic bottles stored in an ice chest. Wilson caught snatches of their conversation from time to time -- _"Yeah, that's what the wife said,"_ and _"How do you think the Wolf Pack'll do next year?"_ and _"Then I hit her, and she shut up."_

Wilson hated them. He had just dumped another rock to the ground and turned wearily back for another when there was a cry of surprise and pain from behind him, cut short by a terrible crunching sound. He spun around.

One of the prisoners, an older guy who'd insisted everyone call him "Three," had apparently managed to climb to the top of the taller rock pile in order to push some of it down. Make it look smaller. Instead the stones and gravel had shifted under his feet, and he'd come tumbling down to land in an awkward sprawl in the dirt.

"Shit!" Wilson cursed and hobbled as quickly as he could to the man's side. He knelt, mentally listing the prisoner's injuries. Scalp laceration, bleeding all over the place. A trickle of blood from the man's right ear. Clear liquid oozing from his nostrils. Bruising beginning to form under the eyes. Wilson pried up the man's eyelids, and even without a penlight he could see that the pupils were vastly uneven. The injured man's pulse was fast and thready. Wilson looked up to see the two other prisoners and the guards all standing there like spectators at a reality TV show.

"I'm a doctor," Wilson snapped. "This man has a skull fracture. We need to get him to a hospital right away."

Nobody moved.

"Did you _hear_ me? He could die from this!"

The prisoners turned away and began to pick up rocks again. The guards started to drift back towards the truck. Wilson gaped.

"What the hell is _wrong_ with you people?" He shot to his feet, and clumsily pursued the crew boss.

"Look," he yelled. "This has gone far enough! It's not bad enough that you kidnap _me_ and lock me up like an animal -- this is _murder!"_ And he grabbed the boss's arm.

Too late, he remembered Tooey's words from the day before -- _"There's that whole dynamic of giving sadists and assholes guns and uniforms."_

There were bright blue flashes, the _bzaaapppp_ of at least two Tasers, and Wilson found himself flat on his back, looking up into a cloudless blue sky.

"Prisoners don't touch guards," the crew boss said from somewhere up above. "Thought that woulda been obvious by now."

"What do you want us to do with him, Sarge?" one of the guards asked. Wilson moaned softly and tried to move, but his arms and legs didn't seem to work.

"Strip him and stake him out," the boss said. "See if getting some ant bites and a sunburn on his pecker learns him anything."

* * *

He was vaguely aware of hands under his arms, dragging him away from the truck and the rockpiles and the deserted road. His heels bumped along the ground, leaving a parallel trail in the sand. Then he was lying flat again, and more hands were lifting his arms, tugging his t-shirt off over his head. Fingers hooked into the elastic waistband of his shorts; he tried to grab at the cloth as it slid down over his thighs but the double Tasering had left him helpless.

His hand fluttered in the air like a wounded bird.

One of the guards dropped several _somethings_ by his head; they made a clattery sound as they hit the ground. He realized they were long wooden tent pegs when the guards stretched his arms out and began pounding the rods into the dirt next to his wrists. He tried to move again, and this time was able to raise his right arm. The guards easily caught it and forced it back down. He grunted as lengths of rope were looped around his wrists and pulled tight, tying them securely to the pegs.

"No," he whispered, but the guards were already at work on his ankles, unlocking the fetters and wrenching his legs painfully far apart.

When they left him, he was spreadeagled, bound hand and foot to the rapidly heating, scrubby earth, the sun beating down on his naked, exposed body.

* * *

There was a rock digging into Wilson's back.

He took slow, shallow breaths, trying not to panic, and pulled at his restraints again.

It was no use. The bastards obviously had plenty of experience at this; they'd stretched him taut and tied him tight. There was no way he could get enough leverage to free himself.

A fly buzzed at his ear and he shook his head to try and chase it away.

In the distance he could hear the clink of chains as his fellow prisoners continued to carry rocks back and forth, and the braying laughter of the guards as one of them told a funny story.

 _Probably about other inmates they'd tortured,_ Wilson thought, and struggled again to fight down the rising fear.

Down here at ground level it was a different world -- all he had to do was turn his head and he could see ants and grasshoppers, oddly-colored beetles and strange flying bugs. So far nothing had bitten or stung him, and for that he was grateful.

He raised his head for a moment and looked down at his body. He could see the nest of curly, dark pubic hair into which his penis and testicles had sensibly retreated, and his legs spread wide and the tops of his feet, but not much else. His shoulders began to protest and he dropped his head back with a thump.

 _Naked,_ he thought. _Naked and tied up like an animal ready for slaughter in the middle of the goddamn Nevada desert by a bunch of insane rent-a-cops._

He felt something feather-soft, tiny legs creeping, and he raised his head again.

A centipede was exploring his stomach, its long antennae waving back and forth like miniature radar sweeps.

Wilson held his breath.

 _This is so fucked._

* * *

He was thirsty. And hungry, but mostly thirsty.

The centipede hadn't bitten him, but numerous other small insects had -- mostly ants, he thought, but he couldn't be sure since he couldn't always see them. They burned and itched, and he could feel things crawling in his hair and along his outstretched arms.

His shoulders ached, and his hips, and his wrists and ankles were chafed and raw because he'd been unable to keep from tugging at the ropes that were holding him so damn tight.

He blinked up at the sun.

God, he was thirsty.

* * *

Wilson moaned softly. He knew he'd been doing it for awhile now, but he couldn't seem to stop himself.

His skin was starting to turn red and he had a terrible headache. He'd closed his eyes against the searing sun a long time ago, but he could still see it, red against his closed lids.

A shadow fell over his face and slowly, painfully, he opened his eyes. It was one of the guards, checking on him.

"Wadr," Wilson mumbled. He tried to lick his lips, and tried again. "Water. Please."

"Water?" The guard's voice was loud and mocking. "You want water? Here's some water for you." And he twisted the cap off the bottle he was holding and poured the ice-cold liquid over Wilson's chest and stomach.

Wilson screamed as the chilled liquid hit his raw, reddened skin. It was like the electric jolt of the Taser, and he bucked and thrashed as the water burned him like acid.

The heel of his left foot dug into the sandy dirt, dislodging a rock, and underneath the rock, in a tiny hollow, an insect. Normally nocturnal, confused and angry at being disturbed during the day, the creature waved its short, jointed tail and stung the nearest available target.

Wilson screamed again and tried to jerk his foot away from whoever had suddenly driven a needle-sharp nail into it.

 _"God!"_ he screamed. _"Oh, God!"_

"What the hell?" the guard muttered, and crouched down to see what the matter was. After a moment he saw the small insect, and grinned as he slipped on a leather glove.

Wilson watched through tear-filled eyes and gulped down sobs as the guard held the wriggling thing in front of his face.

"It's just a little _bug,"_ the guard taunted.

"No, please, oh God, no." Wilson could hear the stark fear and shameless begging in his own voice and hated it, but there was nothing else he could do. He wrenched again at the restraints, but the ropes were unyielding.

The guard laughed, then leaned close.

"I think it _likes_ you," he whispered, and dropped the scorpion onto Wilson's genitals.

* * *

They'd gagged him to stop his screaming as the small arthropod had slowly worked its bumbling insect way off of Wilson's body, wielding its powerful stinger countless more times before finally hitting the ground and scuttling away.

"We knock off at six sharp around here, prisoner," the crew boss said. "Think you can keep the rest of the love-struck insect community away from your dick for the next couple hours?"

The rest of the guards snickered. The boss kicked Wilson in the hip. "C'mon," he ordered, and Wilson was left alone again.

* * *

House sat on his sofa, picking out a vintage Who tune on his guitar. Every now and then he'd reach over to his open cellphone, hit the speaker button and speed dial, and listen to the mellifluous tones of Wilson reciting the world's most boring voicemail greeting.

Every time, straight to voicemail.

Which didn't really make sense, because Wilson was back in New Jersey. His flight had landed safely -- House had checked both Flightview.com and the airline's own site.

Wilson should have turned his phone back on the minute he'd gotten off the plane; keeping in touch was practically a commandment in his eyes, and House smiled at the sudden vision of Wilson binding his pager to his arm like some kind of modern _tefillin_.

He decided not to worry about it. After all, he'd see Wilson tomorrow, and they'd laugh about it then.

* * *

They threw him into the back of the truck like a half-empty sack of grain.

The other prisoners and guards moved their feet out of the way. They'd cuffed his wrists in front of him but they hadn't taken off the gag.

Wilson didn't care. He wasn't sure if he cared about anything anymore.

He turned his head slowly -- there was someone else on the floor of the truck bed next to him. Someone cold and silent, whose eyes stared sightlessly at the swaying canvas tarp.

It was Three, his depressed skull fracture still leaking slow drops of blood.

When they got back to the camp, the guards hauled Wilson through the clearing and into the infirmary tent.

The desperate voice from the hotbox was silent.

"You again?" Dr. Tritter said.

  
~ [Chapter Five](http://community.livejournal.com/house_wilson/1593010.html?#cutid1)

 **NOTES:**  
 _Tefillin_ are also known as phylacteries; more information about them may be found [here](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tefillin).

  



	5. </b>  Welcome to Wherever You Are

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Old enemies can turn up in the most unexpected places, and when those enemies are in positions of power ... all bets are off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> None.

_**Welcome to Wherever You Are (5/11)**_  
Cross-posted to [](http://sick-wilson.livejournal.com/profile)[**sick_wilson**](http://sick-wilson.livejournal.com/).  
 **TITLE:** Welcome to Wherever You Are  
 **AUTHOR:** [](http://nightdog-writes.livejournal.com/profile)[**nightdog_writes**](http://nightdog-writes.livejournal.com/)  
 **PAIRING:** House-Wilson, strong friendship, other OCs  
 **RATING:** "R"  
 **WARNINGS:** Yes, for a few scenes of violence.  
 **SPOILERS:** Yes, for the S3 Tritter Arc and how it ended.  
 **SUMMARY:** Old enemies can turn up in the most unexpected places, and when those enemies are in positions of power ... all bets are off.  
 **DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **AUTHOR NOTES:** None.  
 **BETA:** My First Readers.

  
 **Chapter Five**

  
"Damn, New Guy. Or should I call you Lobster Guy?"

Wilson opened his eyes and shut them again almost immediately. He hurt. His arms hurt. His legs hurt. His _eyebrows_ hurt. And his testicles and penis and the rest of his groin _really_ hurt, where that damn scorpion had stung him.

"New Guy?" Tooey's voice was low and concerned. "You gonna be okay?"

"Uh," Wilson said, and the answer seemed to satisfy Tooey, who was leaning back with a smile as Wilson opened his eyes again.

"So what the hell happened?"

"Uh," Wilson mumbled again. "Boss didn't like my work. Gave me a bad performance review."

Tooey stared at him for a moment, alarmed.

 _Prob'ly thinks I'm delirious,_ Wilson thought, and sighed. "Other inmate fell, fractured his skull. I tried to help, and in the process I ... touched the Crew Boss. Tied me to some tent pegs, left me there all afternoon." He decided to leave out the part where the guard had dropped the scorpion onto his crotch as he'd screamed and begged for mercy. How he'd been gagged while he thrashed in agony, the scorpion still loose, its relentless stinging sending jolts of white-hot fire up his spine.

He watched as Tooey's eyes took in Wilson's cuts and scrapes, his sunburned skin, the gauze wrappings around his wrists and ankles and on one foot.

"Okay," Tooey said, and Wilson knew that although Tooey understood there'd been more to it than that, he wasn't going to pursue the subject.

Tooey leaned back further in his chair and crossed one thick, red-furred leg over the other. He scratched idly at his foot.

"That must've been Crew Boss Larry," he said.

Wilson gave him a questioning look.

"To distinguish him from Guard Larry, and Other Boss Larry, and the Larry on the Warden's personal guard staff," Tooey explained. His eyes roamed over Wilson again. "What happened to your foot?"

Wilson shifted on the cot. The chain shackling him to the bedframe clinked.

"Scorpion," he whispered.

 _"You're lucky, you know," the doctor had said before he'd left. Wilson had simply stared at him._

 _"Looks like your stings were caused by a stripe-tail scorpion -- painful but not nearly as neurotoxic as a nasty little customer known as C. exilicauda. In your weakened condition, with the number of stings you received, you might've gone into respiratory arrest."_

 _"No antivenin here, either. Guard or other personnel we'd have had to airlift out."_

 _And the doctor had walked away, the unspoken message hanging clear in the air._

 _"Prisoners we let die."_

The ceiling fans flapped lazily in the infirmary tent, moving the warm air around in gusty little drafts.

Wilson closed his eyes again. He was so tired.

* * *

House cruised slowly through the hospital parking garage; he had a fake traffic ticket all printed and ready to tuck under a windshield wiper on Wilson's Volvo as a welcome-back present.

There was only one problem.

Wilson's Volvo wasn't there.

It wasn't in his Departmental Head parking space, nor in any other free space nearer the door.

It wasn't ... anywhere.

 _Maybe he rode in with someone else this morning._

He kept that thought in mind until he passed by Wilson's office. The door was locked, the interior dark and obviously unoccupied. House stopped for a moment in front of the door.

 _Or ... maybe he got really blitzed and woke up married to a hooker, and he's still in Vegas getting a quickie divorce to go with his quickie wedding._

"House!" He turned around. Chase was hurrying towards him, waving a manila folder.

"I think we have a case," he said, trying to catch his breath. "Twenty-two year old female, fever of unknown origin, severe swelling in her elbows, ankles, and ears --"

"Ears?" House frowned. "You mean her Eustachian tubes? The ear canals?"

Chase shook his head. "Nope. The exterior -- pinna and lobes. She's got cauliflower ears like she just went three rounds with Roy Jones."

Intrigued, House started moving again towards the Diagnostics conference room.

"Order patch tests. Could be an allergic reaction. What's she do? Has she traveled recently? Been out of the country?"

The question of Wilson's whereabouts could wait. Not like there was anything wrong -- he would've heard about it already.

* * *

Wilson gimped out of the infirmary tent, moving in a slow, laborious gait that reminded him of his eighty-two year old grandfather.

On a good day.

He could walk, or rather, limp, on his scorpion-stung foot as long as he didn't put his entire weight on it and watched where he stepped. The problem was exacerbated by his still-sore and tender testicles -- he found himself having to swing one leg out in an exaggerated stride to keep from putting too much pressure on his groin.

Wilson wondered what House would have said if he'd known that Wilson had actually asked for a cane -- only to be denied on the grounds that such an aid could be considered a potential weapon in the hands of a prisoner.

He'd walked only a few feet before he had to stop and catch his breath. This crippled gait was hard on his hips and spine, and he thought again of House. How had he managed it all these years?

 _He has a cane,_ some mocking part of his brain answered. _And Vicodin._

He sighed and started for the mess tent.

* * *

Wilson's gait had improved the longer he'd walked, and his stride was close to normal when he came around the edge of the last tent before the mess hall.

Three guards were beating a prisoner.

Wilson stopped dead, his heart thudding in his chest, his breathing suddenly fast and shallow.

The prisoner was sagging in the grip of two of the guards, arms pinioned behind him as the third guard landed blow after crushing blow in the man's gut, his jaw, his cheek. The inmate's nose had been broken; blood streamed down his face and dripped off his chin. He was breathing through his mouth, dragging in harsh, gasping breaths, and even from this distance Wilson could see torn, bloody gums and crimson-smeared teeth.

Wilson must've made some tiny noise; the guard paused in his assault and looked over his shoulder.

He grinned at Wilson.

Wilson turned and walked away as swiftly as he could without actually running.

He wasn't hungry anymore.

* * *

Wilson was still trying to calm himself when he realized he'd walked into the camp clearing.

Where there was a punishment taking place.

He stood rooted to the ground, staring as a prisoner's arms were raised over his head and his manacled wrists fastened to a short chain dangling from the top bar of the punishment frame.

A guard a few feet away shook out a long, braided whip. He drew his right arm back. The whip whistled through the air -- there was an ugly, horribly loud slapping sound and as if by magic a bright red stripe appeared on the prisoner's bare back. The man cried out as the whip fell again. No one else in the clearing paid any attention.

Some sudden, small movement distracted Wilson and he managed to look away -- something was waving, _wiggling_ over to his right. He stumbled towards it, away from this place where a whip was opening raw red wounds on a prisoner's back.

The wiggling things were thin and white, and impossibly enough, they were growing out of the earth itself. His stomach turned over as he realized what they were.

It was the man in the hotbox, stretching his hand out of the narrow barred window of his broiling prison.

The fingers wiggled again, waving for attention, waving for release. Waving for help.

He watched as a bored guard stepped forward and ground his boot down on the prisoner's hand, forcing it back down and casually sliding the grate shut over the window.

Wilson fled.

* * *

House looked at his watch and was startled to see that it was almost 4:30. Where the hell had the day gone?

Well, he _knew_ where the day had gone -- the patient, the tests, the hypotheses, the patient crashing, more tests, more hypotheses, berating his fellows, the patient improving, then crashing again, Cameron stalking off in a cold fury ( _that_ part had been fun, actually), and finally ... nothing. Anticlimax. The patient resting comfortably in the ICU.

His stomach growled; House had missed lunch. He might as well head home. Let Chase and Foreman continue to monitor the situation.

He stood up and began stuffing important stuff into his backpack -- journals, charts, his iPod.

The phone rang.

With a low growl, House snatched it up.

"You have reached the office of Dr. Gregory House," he announced in a robotic monotone. "He's not here right now, but --"

"Dr. House?" House rolled his eyes.

"What did I just say? He's not here right now. Leave a message --"

"Do you know how I can reach him? I'm a friend of his colleague, Dr. James Wilson."

House let the backpack fall to its side and sat down heavily in his office chair. He scrubbed a hand across his face and took a deep breath.

"This is Dr. House," he said. "What's happened to Wilson?"

* * *

"He said his name was Winston Sen," House said. "He's a radiation oncologist, lives in Oxnard, California, and he was with Wilson at the Vegas conference."

"And this has to do with ... what?" Cuddy was working, going through her interoffice mail. House flinched as she picked up a long, gleaming letter opener and slashed open another envelope.

"It has to do with Wilson not answering his cell phone. It has to do with Wilson not being at work today. It has to do with Wilson _disappearing!"_

Cuddy paused. "Wilson wasn't at work today?" She caught House's look of exasperation. "Oh, please," she snapped. "So he took an extra day off, played hooky. It's something _you'd_ do in a heartbeat if you thought you could get away with it, so why are you so upset when _he_ does it?"

"Because Wilson doesn't _do_ these kinds of things!" He leaned forward. "Sen said he loaned Wilson his rental car. Next thing he knows, the company's calling his home number saying the cops found the car abandoned in the desert and he'll be hearing from the lawyers tomorrow if not sooner."

Cuddy had stopped ripping open envelopes and was staring at him.

"He talked to the cops -- they said the rental papers were in the glove compartment along with Wilson's wallet. No Wilson."

Cuddy sat back in her chair, trying to process what House was saying. She had a paper in her hand, the last piece of interoffice mail she'd opened. She glanced down, intending to slip it back in its envelope to deal with later, when the subject line and a printed name jumped out at her.

 _In Re: Request for Medical Records for Dr. James Wilson by Hellebore County Sheriff's Department, Hellebore, NV._

"Oh, _shit,"_ she whispered.

* * *

"Sergeant, if you could just tell us again what you know --"

The voice on the other end was calm and long-suffering.

"I've told you, ma'am. We're investigating the case but there are no new leads. If you'd like to file a missing persons report, then we'll follow up on that and let you know if anything new turns up."

Cuddy closed her eyes in frustration. House was motioning for the phone. She refused to give it to him.

"And you requested the medical records because --"

The Hellebore County police sergeant's voice was very gentle.

"In case we had to identify a body, ma'am."

Cuddy stayed on the phone for another twenty minutes, asking the same questions over and over, each time hoping for a different answer, but the officer's responses were consistent.

No new leads. No, ma'am, there'd been no signs of a struggle or any violence at all in or near the abandoned convertible. No, the subject's cellphone hadn't been located.

Yes, ma'am, you'd be more than welcome to pay us a visit. If you feel the need to. We're doing everything we can.

"Thank you, Sergeant," Cuddy said at last, still ignoring House's increasingly theatrical gestures for the telephone. "You've been a great help."

"You're very welcome, ma'am," the voice replied. There was a clicking sound, as if the officer had suddenly popped a wad of gum. "We'll be sure to let you know the minute anything turns up."

* * *

"It's a cover-up," House stated flatly.

Cuddy moaned, leaning back in her chair, wishing she could rub her weary eyes.

"Do you ever _listen_ to yourself?" she demanded. "No, wait, of course you do, because you're the smartest person in the room and nobody else is worth listening to. House, the police are _working the case._ What else do you suggest I do?"

House's gaze was intense, blue eyes like frozen polar fire. Shaken, she looked away.

"I suggest you buy me a ticket to Las Vegas," he growled. "Because everybody lies."

* * *

House looked at the small square of white plastic and wondered for a moment if Wilson had ever suspected how neatly he'd picked his pocket that day, lifting the spare cardkey as deftly as any light-fingered thief. It had been months ago; surely Wilson would have noticed by now.

 _Maybe he did. Wilson's not stupid. Maybe he wanted you to take it._

House pushed the thought aside and slid the card into the slot. He had a puzzle to solve.

He pushed open the door to Wilson's Plainsboro hotel room, hoping against hope that this one last quest would prove him wrong.

That the whole thing -- the abandoned car, the mysterious disappearance, the phone silence -- had all been some kind of huge misunderstanding, and that Wilson would be here, a cold beer in his hand, ready to share the joke and laugh with House about how everything had snowballed and he was sorry for the way he'd made everyone worry.

The room was silent.

And empty.

* * *

Wilson was standing a few feet away from the barbed wire thicket. He could feel the guards' eyes on him, gauging his distance from the dead line, deciding _shoot/don't shoot._

He paid them no mind. He was thinking.

Just a few days ago, he'd been James Wilson, M.D., Head of Oncology at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. One of the youngest Department Heads on the East Coast, respected in his field, on track for a Dean's position if he wanted it. A silver-tongued golden boy, everything within his reach.

It had all been swept away, lost in one misbegotten night.

Today he was Prisoner 24597, trapped in a nightmarish existence of Kafkaesque proportions. He'd been assaulted, robbed, jailed without cause. Beaten and Tasered repeatedly. Tied up in a field so he could be bitten and stung by _insects._ Burnt to a fine, melanoma-inducing shade of red, front _and_ back.

And it was just going to go on and on, with no end in sight.

No one knew he was here. No one would ever find him.

If they were even searching for him.

Was House? A year ago he would've answered "yes", automatically and without thinking.

Now he wasn't so sure.

Wilson looked up, and saw two of the tower guards looking back at him, their automatic rifles unslung from their shoulders and ready at hand. It would only take them a moment to aim and fire, and all this would be over ...

The razor wire seemed to vibrate, calling to him.

Wilson shivered, started to take a step forward --

"Now do you _really_ want to do that?"

Tooey, standing next to him. Close enough to touch.

"Because if you do, can I have your bologna sandwich tomorrow?"

Wilson closed his eyes. "Go away, Tooey," he said roughly. "Better to do it myself than wait around for them to."

"Wow," Tooey said admiringly. "That's deep. You get that out of a fortune cookie? Seen _Gladiator_ one too many times? 'Maxims-R-Us'?" He snorted derisively. "If you commit suicide-by-cop then _they_ win."

Wilson's head snapped around.

 _"Now_ who's full of shit?"

Tooey's lips quirked; he had the grace to look guilty as he scuffed at the dirt with one hideous pink flip-flop.

Wilson sighed. "Sorry."

Tooey exploded. "Jesus, will you _shut up?_ You know, I get the feeling that you say that a lot -- every day, as a matter of fact. Am I right?"

Wilson looked away, shamefaced.

"I knew it. I knew I was right."

Tooey reached out, touched Wilson gently on his bicep.

"I don't want you to be sorry. I just want you to live."

* * *

They walked away from the fence together.

Tooey was prattling on about the flora and fauna of the Nevada desert, about work gangs past and present, and what 6843 had said to 475 when he'd found out that 475 had stolen his orange for the third time in a row.

Wilson wasn't listening. Tooey had been right. He needed to live.

He needed to live so he could escape from here.

Or die trying.

  
~ [Chapter Six](http://community.livejournal.com/house_wilson/1595532.html?#cutid1)

 **NOTES:**  
Interesting information on the effects of scorpion stings may be found [here](http://ag.arizona.edu/pubs/insects/az1223/).

  



	6. </b>  Welcome to Wherever You Are

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Old enemies can turn up in the most unexpected places, and when those enemies are in positions of power ... all bets are off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *smiles* There's a special treat at the end of this chapter -- a DVD bonus from the wonderful [](http://deelaundry.livejournal.com/profile)[**deelaundry**](http://deelaundry.livejournal.com/), who has written a small vignette into this ficverse.

_**Welcome to Wherever You Are (6/11)**_  
Cross-posted to [](http://sick-wilson.livejournal.com/profile)[**sick_wilson**](http://sick-wilson.livejournal.com/).  
 **TITLE:** Welcome to Wherever You Are  
 **AUTHOR:** [](http://nightdog-writes.livejournal.com/profile)[**nightdog_writes**](http://nightdog-writes.livejournal.com/)  
 **PAIRING:** House-Wilson, strong friendship, other OCs  
 **RATING:** "R"  
 **WARNINGS:** None.  
 **SPOILERS:** Yes, for the S3 Tritter Arc and how it ended.  
 **SUMMARY:** Old enemies can turn up in the most unexpected places, and when those enemies are in positions of power ... all bets are off.  
 **DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **AUTHOR NOTES:** *smiles* There's a special treat at the end of this chapter -- a DVD bonus from the wonderful [](http://deelaundry.livejournal.com/profile)[**deelaundry**](http://deelaundry.livejournal.com/) , who has written a small vignette into this ficverse.  
 **BETA:** My awesome First Readers. Especial thanks to [](http://blackmare-9.livejournal.com/profile)[**blackmare_9**](http://blackmare-9.livejournal.com/) for editorial suggestions.

  
 **Chapter Six**

  
Someone was smoking a cigarette.

Wilson opened his eyes, and the guard who'd been about kick his bedframe put his foot back down. His companion was already unlocking Wilson's ankle cuff, freeing him from the restraining shackle.

"Doc says you're excused from work crew one more day," the first guard said. He took a lazy puff on his half-smoked cigarette and stubbed it out under his boot. "Still gotta get up though." The two guards snapped sarcastic, mocking salutes and sauntered away. Wilson leaned over the side of the cot and stared at the crushed cigarette butt, still faintly smoldering in the dirt.

 _Forget about having to take a piss in the middle of the night,_ he thought. _What if they dropped a cigarette on my cot? Chained to the damn bed, I'd never stand a chance._

He swung his legs to the floor and stood, a little unsteadily. He remembered his resolve of the night before and nodded to himself.

 _Have to get out of here. Have to escape._

* * *

Breakfast was the same as yesterday's, and Wilson strongly suspected it would be the same tomorrow and the day after that.

He'd kept his head down in the showers; the cold water sluicing over his burned skin had made him hiss softly in pain. He had a few small blisters on his chest, and his face felt sore and tender. He didn't bother shaving.

He had looked at the ground all the way to the mess tent; he was partly hoping not to witness any more beatings, but more than that he wanted to keep himself from becoming the target of a random attack.

The now-familiar shock of fiery red hair was nowhere in sight, and Wilson felt his throat close a little in something very much like disappointment.

It didn't help the dry, barely palatable scrambled eggs go down any easier.

* * *

House was tired, and his leg ached. He desperately wanted a Vicodin, but the last time he'd taken one in front of a police detective, things hadn't turned out so well.

He satisfied himself with glaring alternately at Cuddy and Detective Broom of the Las Vegas Police Department.

"So as I said, Dr. Cuddy, Dr. House -- there's really nothing the Las Vegas Police can do at this point. This is out of our jurisdiction."

House snorted. It was his patented "I told you so" snort, reserved for hapless medical students, deluded fellows, and Deans of Medicine who had insisted on doing the sensible thing first.

"We're already _here,_ House," Cuddy had said as their connecting flight from Denver had landed at McCarran International. "We might as well see them first."

"No, what we _should_ do is pick up the car, get a map, and go directly to Hellebore. That's where Wilson disappeared, that's where it all went down." He'd paused, realizing he was talking like a character in a badly-written episode of some cheesy cop show.

"We're talking to the Vegas police first," Cuddy had said flatly, and that had been that.

"You're perfectly welcome to file a missing persons report," Detective Broom was saying, and House snapped his attention back to the present.

The detective was a tall guy, with the lean build and lithe muscles of a long-distance runner or a dancer. House could tell he was trying to let Cuddy down gently.

"Do you know how many adults are reported missing in Las Vegas alone -- every day? Five to seven. Over two hundred a month. And the vast majority of those people turn up safe and sound within forty-eight to seventy-two hours."

He leaned forward; the casters on the detective's office chair protested with a whining squeak.

"You folks do realize a lot of people who disappear disappear for a reason. Was Dr. Wilson depressed? Having trouble at work? In an abusive relationship?"

Cuddy and House were both silent, and Detective Broom's green eyes narrowed.

"I'll be happy to call the Hellebore County Sheriff's Department, tell them you'll be coming by. But the question you need to ask yourselves is -- does Dr. Wilson _want_ to be found?"

* * *

House picked at his lunch. The classic super-cheap Vegas prime rib plate was tempting, but the meat, roasted to a perfect medium-rare, tasted like ashes in his mouth. Across the table, Cuddy moved pieces of lettuce and grilled chicken around the teak salad bowl.

At last she put her fork down and dabbed at her mouth with the white linen napkin. She'd eaten none of her salad.

"What if he's right?" she said.

"He's not right," House rumbled.

"But what if he _is?"_ she persisted. "Those questions --"

"Don't apply to Wilson."

Cuddy took a sip of water and looked away, and House was quietly grateful that she hadn't asked if _he'd_ known the answers to the detective's questions.

* * *

Lunch was a bologna sandwich, a bag of stale potato chips, four dry, wrinkled baby carrots, and another green apple.

Wilson ate slowly, making it last. It was something to do.

No one else in the mess hall spoke to or even looked at him, and after a while Wilson rested his head in his hands.

He wished Tooey were here.

* * *

The interview with the Hellebore County officer was a virtual replay of Las Vegas, except that the detective's name was Samuelsson.

It had been a longer drive out here than either of them had expected -- mile upon mile of scrubby, arid land with hardly a tree in sight to break the monotony.

House's general feeling of unease had not been assuaged by the small, weather-beaten signs he'd spotted just outside the town -- _The Kiwanis Club of Hellebore Welcomes You! -- The Lions Club -- The Elks -- Eat at Joe's!_

They'd all been bullet-riddled, liberally peppered with buckshot. Except for one small white sign which had read _REPENT AND BE WASHED IN THE BLOOD OF THE LAMB!_

Despite the signs, the main street of the town had been mostly deserted. It seemed the good citizens of Hellebore all had business elsewhere.

House had slammed the car door as he'd gotten out, and the sound had echoed in the warm, still air.

"Where's Gary Cooper when you need him?" he muttered.

And now this new detective -- Samuelsson -- was giving them the same story as Detective Broom.

"We're really doing all we can, Doctors," he said soothingly.

Samuelsson was a wiry guy, with pale hair so blond it was almost white. His eyes were that shade of blue that hinted of Nordic climes and Viking ancestors.

House wondered idly how badly the detective sunburned every year in the Nevada summer.

"There were no signs of a struggle, no indication of violence of any kind. Dr. Sen's rental contract and Dr. Wilson's wallet were both in the glove compartment." His level gaze was sincere and full of sympathy. "I'm afraid we have to consider the possibility that Dr. Wilson simply parked on the side of the road and ... walked away." The detective pushed his chair back, a clear indication that he, at least, believed the meeting to be over.

House didn't move. "What about Wilson's cell phone?"

The detective blinked and looked nonplussed for just a moment.

"Ah," he said. "We haven't ... located that particular item yet." Recovering quickly, he opened one of the desk drawers and reached inside. "You might like to have this, though." And he slid a thin brown object across the desk towards House, who stared at it as if it were a coiled rattlesnake.

Wilson's wallet.

"Now if there's nothing else, I'll escort you folks out."

House willed his hand not to tremble as he picked up the wallet.

* * *

Outside, the sun was beating down and shimmering heatwaves were rising off the tarmac. Detective Samuelsson's dark sunglasses hid his expression as he handed his business card to Cuddy.

"Once again, Doctors, I assure you we're doing everything we can. It's just that with no new leads, there's not a lot for us to go on."

Something small and black skittered by House's cane. He looked down just as Samuelsson's shoe crushed whatever had been there. There was a horribly crunchy, _squishy_ sound.

"Scorpion," the detective said. "They're everywhere."

* * *

Samuelsson watched as the two doctors drove away, then turned to the uniformed officer who'd come up to stand beside him.

"Last we'll see of them," he said.

"Good," said Officer Tritter.

* * *

House sat in his darkened hotel room, sipping room service scotch as he waited for Cuddy to get ready for dinner.

It had been a long, silent drive back to Vegas, through the same ugly scrubland and the same ugly brush and the same ugly non-trees.

There was something badly wrong here, he knew it, but so far everywhere he'd turned had been a stone wall. They were going in circles, every exit out of the maze blocked.

He took another sip and ran a callused hand over his face.

What if he couldn't solve this puzzle?

What if the police were right, and there was nothing here to solve?

* * *

Wilson was shocked to discover that dinner was a _ham_ sandwich.

He wished Tooey were here so they could speculate on whether the ham came from the same unappetizing pig as the breakfast bacon.

Wilson ate quietly, trying not to think about what might've happened to Tooey. Maybe he'd gone out on a work crew, said something or looked at a guard the wrong way. Maybe he'd bumped into a camp guard and been beaten to death behind some anonymous tent. Maybe he'd -- _stop it,_ Wilson's mind ordered. _Don't dwell on what might've or might not have happened to someone you've only known for a couple of days. Think about getting out of here._

That was it. He'd think about escaping this hellhole.

He tried to concentrate. It was proving more difficult of late. After all he'd been through, all the craziness, the pain -- _Stop. You can't afford this pity._

Obviously he couldn't go through the wire. Trucks going in and out were all thoroughly searched. This wasn't some World War II movie where he could tunnel his way out with a spoon, and unless he sprouted wings he sure couldn't fly away.

So he had to get a message out. Except they'd taken his cellphone, and even if he still had it it wouldn't do any good because this was a dead zone and the only means of communication to the outside world were --

The satphones.

What had Tooey said? There were at least three of them -- in the infirmary, the guards' barracks, and ... the Warden's office.

The barracks were obviously off-limits.

The others ... he'd take a look. It couldn't hurt to see how close he might be able to get to one. Could it? Besides, it would fill the time until lights-out, when he'd be chained to his bed again.

So -- okay then. He'd try this thing, just to see. That's all.

He heard a small sound and looked down, startled. It was as if his ham sandwich had --

The sound came again, and he realized it was himself, a short, hysterical laugh trying to bubble up from his throat.

He shoved his half-empty dinner tray away and walked quickly out of the mess tent.

* * *

The first phone was a complete strikeout.

Pretending to loiter idly by the tent entrance, he could see the doctor inside, chatting with a nurse and two guards.

It didn't look like any of them were going anywhere, so he ambled away, heading slowly towards the Warden's office in the one substantial building in the camp.

As he walked, he became aware of a tiny, frantic voice in his head. It sounded remarkably like Tooey.

Or House.

 _What the fuck are you doing, you moron? Don't you remember what happened in there? These people are crazy! Turn around! Go back to your tent! Don't take stupid chances!_

He squashed the voice back down. _Just a look,_ he told himself. _Just a quick look and then I'll leave. That's all._

* * *

Wilson's palms were clammy, and he was breathing in short, sharp gasps.

 _Oh God. I'm inside. I'm really inside. Oh, shit._

In the end, it had been remarkably easy to get in. He'd simply walked around to the back of the building, pulled open a non-descript, industrial-grey door, and stepped inside.

Perhaps the person supposed to be guarding the door had taken a break at that particular moment. Perhaps an alarm was supposed to go off, but the wires had gotten corroded in this desert heat.

Perhaps they'd just never considered that a prisoner might actually try this.

Wilson stood for a moment, trying to get his nerves under control. The hallways were deserted, and there were even helpful signs on the walls saying _"Warden's Office ---- >"_

He made his way through the hall, flinching at every small noise and ducking behind doors and down cross hallways when he thought someone might be coming. He hesitated for a long moment outside the Warden's office door, screwing up the courage to turn the doorknob. Finally he grasped the cool brass handle and squeezed his eyes shut.

 _Here goes nothin'._

The office was empty.

Everything was as he'd remembered it -- the desk, its surface polished to a gleaming shine, the bookshelves, even the gold-framed diploma.

And behind the desk, something he hadn't been able to see before. _Because first the Warden was sitting there and then the guards were holding you down and -- stop that. Not helping._ He made the little voice go away quickly because he didn't want to think about that right now, no.

There, resting on a long, waist-high cabinet, was a black plastic suitcase. Raised silver lettering on the pebbled hardshell identified it as _Globalstar._

Wilson made a tiny whining sound. It was here. It was really here.

His hands shook as he raised the lid. Nestled inside were an AC charger, a cigarette-plug charger, and a few spare lithium batteries. And nestled beside _those_ was the satellite phone itself, a bulky thing much larger than a usual cellphone.

He lifted it out carefully, almost reverently.

It was heavy, with a stubby, ungainly antenna. A tiny green light on the phone's front indicated it was charged and ready to go.

"Oh, God," Wilson whispered. "Oh, thank you."

There was a roaring in his ears and he couldn't seem to stop trembling. His fingers felt clumsy and frozen, and he fumbled twice before managing to push the "on" button.

The viewscreen lit up. He licked his parched lips, suddenly afraid of punching in the wrong number. What if 911 didn't work on this phone? Worse, what if the Tritters had their claws into that system too? What if --

 _SHUT UP AND DIAL THE FUCKING PHONE!_ his brain screamed at him.

Wilson took a deep breath. He'd call House. His fingers moved to punch in the Plainsboro area code, 609, and --

Something cold and hard pressed against his left temple. Wilson froze.

"I am so, so sorry, Dr. Wilson," said a familiar voice. A _very_ familiar voice. "But I can't let you do this."

 _Tooey._

~ [Chapter Seven](http://community.livejournal.com/house_wilson/1597485.html?#cutid1)

 **NOTES:**  
Statistics on missing persons in the Las Vegas area may be found [here](http://www.lvmpd.com/), under the "Annual Report".  
The Globalstar satellite phone is [here](http://www.globalcomsatphone.com/satellite/phones/globalstar_kit.html).

Click [here](http://deelaundry.livejournal.com/53591.html) for the DVD bonus, _I Am Happy to See You: An Interlude_. Please be forewarned this bonus is rated NC-17.

  



	7. </b>  Welcome to Wherever You Are

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Old enemies can turn up in the most unexpected places, and when those enemies are in positions of power ... all bets are off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> None.

_**Welcome to Wherever You Are (7/11)**_  
Cross-posted to [](http://sick-wilson.livejournal.com/profile)[**sick_wilson**](http://sick-wilson.livejournal.com/).  
 **TITLE:** Welcome to Wherever You Are  
 **AUTHOR:** [](http://nightdog-writes.livejournal.com/profile)[**nightdog_writes**](http://nightdog-writes.livejournal.com/)  
 **PAIRING:** House-Wilson, strong friendship, other OCs  
 **RATING:** "R"  
 **WARNINGS:** Yes, for scenes of graphic violence that may be distressing for some readers.  
 **SPOILERS:** Yes, for the S3 Tritter Arc and how it ended.  
 **SUMMARY:** Old enemies can turn up in the most unexpected places, and when those enemies are in positions of power ... all bets are off.  
 **DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **AUTHOR NOTES:** None.  
 **BETA:** My awesome First Readers.

  
 **Chapter Seven**

  
"Put the phone down, Dr. Wilson," Tooey said. He kept the muzzle of his handgun pressed to Wilson's temple.

"Ah," Wilson said, in a tiny, strangled voice. "I ... ah --" Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. _Not fair!_ some small outraged part of his mind was screaming. _I got this far! I was so close! It's not fucking fair!_

Tooey's voice was gentle but firm. "Put the phone down," he repeated. "I really am sorry, but you would've ruined a lot of other people's very important plans if you'd made that call." A faint note of rueful amusement crept into his tone. "How was I to know you'd be so goddamned determined, New Guy?"

"Fuck you," Wilson whispered bitterly. "Fuck you, you lying son of a bitch."

Tooey sighed and started to say something, but there was suddenly a storm of activity in the hallway outside -- the sound of booted feet stampeding to a stop by the door, urgent voices shouting, fists pounding on the locked door. Tooey cursed softly.

"Shit. They're here already." The pistol barrel pressed harder, forcing Wilson to turn his head. "Face the door," Tooey said. Wilson hesitated.

 _"Face the fucking door!"_ Tooey snarled. A strong hand on Wilson's shoulder spun him around. The satphone dropped to the floor with a muffled thump.

"Don't turn around until I tell you to," Tooey muttered.

Wilson stared at the office door. There was an odd, shifting sound behind him, as of wooden shelves and old gears pivoting creakily into place.

The door burst open. Uniformed men -- camp guards -- spilled into the office.

"Get him!" someone yelled, and Wilson grunted as he was tackled by multiple assailants and borne heavily to the floor. He gasped for breath, the wind knocked out of him, as guards pinned his arms and legs to the plush carpet and knelt on his chest and ribs for good measure.

"Did he call out?" someone else was asking frantically. "Did he call?"

 _Call out?_ Wilson thought muzzily. _I didn't say anything ..._ It took him a moment to realize that whoever was speaking was talking about the fallen satphone.

"Can't tell," one of the men said. "Looks like he didn't know enough to trigger the log, so I can't tell if he got through to anyone or not."

"God _damn_ it," the first voice swore, and Wilson finally recognized it as the Warden's. "Get him up."

Wilson was hauled to his feet, and stood dazed as his hands were cuffed behind his back and fetters locked around his ankles.

The Warden's angry face was very close to his own.

"Did you call anyone?" the Warden demanded.

"No," Wilson stammered. "I -- no, no."

"Are you telling the truth? Or are you lying the same way your bitch of a boss perjured herself on the stand?"

"No!" Wilson tried to back up, but there were too many guards holding him in place. "No, it's the truth!"

The office had finally quieted down; the Warden stepped back and tugged at the lapels of his suit.

"Well. We'll find out then, won't we?" He shot his cuffs, the sleeves of his finely-tailored suit settling over his dress shirt, and ran his hands through his hair.

"I'd hoped you'd have a longer stay with us, _Dr._ Wilson," he said, emphasizing the title mockingly. "But it seems you're something of a security risk. We'll determine if you're telling the truth. After that you'll be punished for this blatant escape attempt. I will have order in this camp. I sentence you to ... ten days in the box."

Wilson's knees threatened to collapse as he looked desperately around the room.

Tooey was nowhere in sight.

* * *

The cellar was soundproofed.

Wilson could tell this from the acoustic tiles lining the ceiling and walls. What he could see of the ceiling and walls, anyway. Parts of the cellar were pretty dark. He flexed his fingers and tried not to think about what was about to happen to him. Maybe he would have felt more confident if they hadn't taken his clothes, left him bare-assed and shivering as they'd tied him to this cold steel chair.

Or maybe he was just cold. It could be that, seeing as how he was _naked,_ his wrists and elbows bound tightly behind and to the chairback, his ankles and knees secured to the chair legs.

It could definitely be that. Or something else. Maybe --

Wilson swallowed and forced himself to choke down his rising panic. He'd been sitting here, terrified out of his fucking mind, for a good half-hour already. At least it felt like a half-hour. Maybe it had only been fifteen minutes. Ten.

Five.

He started as one of the guards emerged into the light.

"Blindfold him," he said.

* * *

House sat at his hotel room's small writing desk and looked out at the brilliant, sparkling lights of the Vegas Strip.

 _It's like the end scene from Close Encounters of the Third Kind,_ he thought dully. _The mother ship sweeps down, the lost are found, the missing ones return. Only it doesn't work that way in real life._

He'd been working on a list. It was pitifully short.

 _Check Vegas hotel room.  
Hack credit cards -- usage?  
Re-check cellphone logs.  
Hack email accounts.  
Talk to Winston Sen again?_

That was it.

He pushed himself up from the uncomfortable hotel chair and its less-than-adequate padding.

Tomorrow, although it was already tomorrow.

Tomorrow he'd think about how he was losing Wilson.

* * *

Wilson gasped as the bucketful of cold water drenched him from head to toe. He spluttered, trying to catch his breath before the shock hit, because the water increased the strength of the electric current, and he didn't know where it would come from because of the goddamn blindfold, and --

There was a _snap!_ as the guard touched the second electrode to his left nipple, and the charge connected through the first one already clipped to his penis, and the shockwave slammed through his body, arching his spine like a taut bow as he rode the lightning.

Wilson's head snapped back and he screamed.

From somewhere far away he could hear the guard asking the same questions he'd been asking all night.

 _"Did you make a call? Who did you talk to? What did you say?"_

 _"No calls!"_ Wilson wailed. _"God, I've told you, no calls -- he stopped me before I could get through!"_ He wrenched at his restraints but the ropes held him tight.

"You're lying," the guard said. _"Lying._ There was no one else there. Now who did you talk to?"

"No one," Wilson panted. "You've got to believe me. I didn't --"

His plea was cut short as the guard laid the electrode against his testicles and left it there.

Wilson's mouth opened very wide, but no sound came out. His body seemed to fold in on itself as he convulsed.

 _"Ah,"_ he said. _"Ah."_ He went limp suddenly, like a rag doll that had lost its stuffing.

Wilson had passed out.

* * *

House fed another quarter into the voracious machine and yanked down the one-armed bandit's lever. Lights flashed, reels spun and clicked to a stop one at a time.

A cherry. A cherry.

A lemon.

He'd lost again. He reached grimly into the tall plastic cup beside him and picked out another coin.

House had been playing the slots for an hour -- it was an activity that required no thought and took his mind off the fact that every time he had closed his eyes in his hotel bed, he'd kept seeing one thing.

Wilson's wallet.

He'd gone through it, of course -- held it in his hands, the brown leather worn soft and rubbed glossy-smooth by years of riding in Wilson's back pocket. House couldn't count how many times he'd watched Wilson fish it out, flip it open, pay for House's lunch, newspapers, magazines, pizza delivery ...

Hardly ever anything for himself.

He had laid it open on the desk, emptied it of cash and change (sixty-nine dollars, four of those in quarters and dimes, and fourteen cents).

House had already fed the quarters to the slot machine and used one of the twenties to buy more.

He'd pulled out the credit cards, inspected them front and back. Check card. Frequent-flyer card. Library card. Tattered restaurant receipts, notes scribbled in Wilson's atrocious left-handed scrawl on tiny bits of paper. Triple-A auto club card. Hospital insurance. Video store card.

An old snapshot, its colors washed out with age. Three boys, two side by side with their arms around each other's shoulders, with a much younger boy in front of them. All three had the facial structure, the distinctive high cheekbones marking them as Wilsons. One of the older boy's hands was resting protectively on the child's head, and the toddler was grinning, obviously delighted at having his picture taken with his big brothers.

House turned the photo over -- on the back, in a graceful blue ballpoint script, _My three beautiful boys May 1979._

He slid the photo back into the wallet, carefully tucking it back behind the furthermost back flap where he'd found it, and left everything else out on the desk. He fanned out the pieces of plastic, lining them up like Tarot cards.

There were two cards missing -- Wilson's driver's license and hospital photo i.d. And that made absolutely no sense at all.

Damn it, none of this made _any_ sense.

If Wilson had truly walked away from Winston Sen's car to start a new life, he would've already had fake identification prepared. He would've left everything behind -- his credit cards, his old i.d. He would have arranged for someone to pick him up, take him to the airport.

Except he wouldn't. He _wouldn't_ have left his wallet behind -- he would have made it look like an attack, a robbery -- the leather billfold would've been found in the dirt, stripped of cash and cards.

And there were no credit cards missing -- House knew what Wilson carried at all times, knew the numbers and expiration dates of his Visa, his MasterCard, his gold American Express.

Besides, the whole idea was absurd. Wilson planning his own disappearance? Hell, the man couldn't make an egg disappear in a henhouse. He wouldn't have walked away in the middle of the friggin' _desert_. He wouldn't have wanted to ruin those good French shoes of his.

There were no shades of grey when a person wanted to disappear -- it was black or white, everything or nothing.

He realized he'd been staring at the slot machine for a while now. He jacked in another quarter and pulled the lever.

Wilson would turn up. He'd reappear just as mysteriously as he'd disappeared, and he'd yell at House for spending all his money, and he'd do that angsty _Wilson_ thing where he pinched the bridge of his nose and looked like a wounded puppy, and then House would be forgiven and everything would be all right.

Because it had to be. Because the alternative -- the point of conclusion that was creeping up inexorably, that the police weren't asking the right questions because they already knew the answers, was ... crazy.

He'd go through his list -- check e-mails, bank balances, look for large withdrawals. Just in case.

The reels spun. Cherry. Strawberry. Lemon.

He'd lost again.

* * *

"No -- calls," Wilson wheezed, trying desperately to catch his breath. "God, can you please stop -- _ahhh!"_

He doubled over as he was punched hard in the gut again. His tormentors had decided to change tactics. They'd untied the restraints, pulled him out of the chair and pushed him back against one of the wooden support beams holding up the cellar's ceiling. His wrists had been cuffed together behind the post, and they'd begun a brutal, methodic alternation of beating and Tasering.

They'd left the blindfold on so he couldn't tell which was coming or where the pain would come next.

Through it all, they'd kept getting in his face, screaming at him.

 _"Who did you call? What did you say? Tell us!"_

"No calls," Wilson repeated. He dragged in a deep, sobbing breath. "I didn't get a call out, just like I didn't get a call when you _fucking baboons_ kidnapped me!"

His head rocked sideways as one of the guards backhanded him across the face. Wilson tasted the bitter copper of blood on his lips.

"Pull his arms up behind him," someone ordered, and Wilson felt strong hands wrap around his cuffed wrists and force them higher up the beam. Soon he was doubled over again, grunting as the strain on his shoulders increased. He cried out; it felt like hot coals were being inserted into his shoulder sockets, rammed in with searing pokers. If they raised his arms much further they were going to dislocate his shoulders.

Of course, that was probably the idea.

He kicked out, trying to hurt at least one of his tormentors, and was Tasered again for his troubles.

Wilson hung helplessly as his handcuff chain was tied to the post and another loop of rope was passed around his chest. He was forced mostly upright, as far as he could go. He moaned as the pressure increased exponentially on his tortured shoulders and the rope was yanked tight, securing him in this exquisitely agonizing position.

He stood there, gasping as the blazing pain spread throughout his body. He whimpered as he felt the electrode clip shut on his penis again.

Hot breath on his face, so close he could smell onions and garlic.

"Now," the guard said. "No more lies."

His voice was very calm.

"Who did you call?"

* * *

Winston Sen's voice was groggy, fuzzy with sleep. "Dr. ... House? What time is it? Oh, shit -- this is about Dr. Wilson, isn't it? Something happened to him --"

"Will you please shut up?" House snapped. "I need to ask you some questions."

There was a pause on the other end.

"At _three in the morning?"_

"The car."

 _"What?"_

"The car. Tell me about the car. Why that one? What's the rental company? Where was it towed?"

Sen groaned. "Christ. The stories Jim told me about you -- I didn't believe them."

House gripped the phone tighter. "Wilson told you stories? About me?" An odd, unfamiliar feeling rose in his chest. He pushed it back down.

Winston Sen chuckled.

"Besides his conference presentation? You were the only other thing Jim talked about. Now, about the car ..."

A half hour later House hung up the phone and looked at the notes he'd taken. He now knew the name of the rental company and of the angry employee who'd called Sen. He knew they should have the original police report; maybe he could take a look at the impounded car and talk to the officers who'd found it.

He knew Wilson told stories about him.

The funny feeling rose again in his chest. It was an unusual feeling.

He wasn't sure what it was.

* * *

Wilson knelt on the cellar floor. It was concrete, roughly-poured cement that had been smoothed out in a slapdash manner, hard and cold under his knees.

He stared at it, his mind and body numb.

The guards had tortured him for over an hour, shocking and beating him as he writhed and struggled in his bonds, tearing at his own shoulder muscles until he'd almost wrenched them from the sockets. Every time he'd passed out they'd revived him with a bucket of cold water and continued the interrogation.

At last they'd let him down, simply unsnapping the cuffs and pulling away the rope so that he'd crashed heavily forward onto his face, his arms so sore he was unable to break his fall.

He'd lain there helpless, as they'd tied his hands behind his back and removed the blindfold.

They'd forced him onto his knees. They'd told him they were going to hang him.

They'd shown him the noose.

* * *

 _The rope is thick, rough and fuzzy with loose hemp sticking out from the braids. The noose is a large loop, tied back on itself in a simple running slipknot._

 _No gallows, no chair or box to stand on. They're going to haul him up and watch as his face turns blue and his legs kick while he slowly strangles to death._

 _Wilson takes a deep breath; he launches himself hard to the right and is rewarded with the sight of one of the guards knocked onto his butt. He struggles, trying to get his feet under him, but it's awkward with his hands tied and he's already weak from the beatings --_

 _He's slammed back down onto his knees and held in place as a guard forces the noose over his head and snugs it around his neck. A large hand fists his hair, yanks his head back._

 _"Who did you talk to?"_

 _Tears are leaking from Wilson's eyes. He wishes he could stop them but he can't._

 _"Go to hell," he grinds out. "All of you."_

 _He's backhanded again, and then the rope is drawing taut and before he can say anything else, he's up. And then his feet are off the floor, and it's only a couple of inches but it might as well be a couple of miles for all the good it will do him._

 _The rope is rough enough so that it's taking it's own time in slipping, tightening around his neck, and shit it hurts like fucking hell. Already he can't breathe -- black dots and white comets are shooting across his field of vision, but he can still see the guards watching, their arms casually folded._

 _And then the noose does slip, and now he really **is** strangling. His lungs are burning and his ears are roaring as carbon dioxide levels build rapidly in his bloodstream. He's sliding into general hypoxia; his starving brain has already begun sending frantic signals to breathe._

 _He pulls desperately at his restraints, but the ropes remain tight around his wrists. His feet kick helplessly, driven by panicked animal impulse to find solid ground._

 _His vision's fading, growing darker. From somewhere down below he feels his bladder let go. His struggles grow weaker; reflexive shivers run through his body._

 _He's dropped, and lands on the concrete with a loud thump._

* * *

Wilson lay on his side, motionless, as the guards' hands loosened the noose just enough for him to draw in a breath. His bruised trachea was on fire; it hurt like hell to breathe and he coughed uncontrollably, sucking in great whooping gasps of air. One of the guards bent close.

"We can do this all night, Prisoner. Maybe one time we won't take you down quickly enough. Why don't you just tell us who you called?"

"He didn't call anyone."

Wilson blinked, trying to focus. Trying to understand that he was still alive.

The guard twisted around and looked up at the new arrival.

"What?"

"He didn't call anyone," the man repeated. "We got the satphone guy out here and he dumped the memory a couple hours ago -- no calls went out besides the ones already on record." He shrugged. "Warden wants him in the box. Now."

"Oh." The guard turned back to Wilson and the rest of the guards. "You heard the man. Get the prisoner up and let's take him outside."

He sounded disappointed.

* * *

Wilson didn't seem to be able to make his legs work, so the guards dragged him across the camp clearing.

He had no idea what time it was or how long he'd been in the cellar. He jounced between the two men holding him up, his toes leaving a sinuous double track in the dirt. Strange black _things_ wove along the ground, seeming to stalk back and forth, advancing and retreating. It took him a few minutes to realize they were shadows, cast by the spotlights mounted on the guard towers.

It seemed like a lifetime ago that Wilson had had dinner in the mess tent, had sneaked into the Warden's office, had held the precious satellite phone in his hands.

Had been captured and tortured because Tooey betrayed him.

He was pulled to a stop; they were standing in front of the metal lid of the hot box. The guard on duty stepped forward and unlocked it, then grunted as he forced the sheet metal up and open.

A black pit yawned in front of Wilson's feet. A miasmic stink assailed his nostrils as his hands were untied.

There was no sign of the cell's previous occupant.

"See you in ten days," Wilson's guard taunted, and shoved him in.

  
~ [Chapter Eight](http://community.livejournal.com/house_wilson/1600534.html?#cutid1)

  



	8. </b>  Welcome to Wherever You Are

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Old enemies can turn up in the most unexpected places, and when those enemies are in positions of power ... all bets are off.

_**Welcome to Wherever You Are (8/11)**_  
Cross-posted to [](http://sick-wilson.livejournal.com/profile)[**sick_wilson**](http://sick-wilson.livejournal.com/).  
 **TITLE:** Welcome to Wherever You Are  
 **AUTHOR:** [](http://nightdog-writes.livejournal.com/profile)[**nightdog_writes**](http://nightdog-writes.livejournal.com/)  
 **PAIRING:** House-Wilson, strong friendship, other OCs  
 **RATING:** "R"  
 **WARNINGS:** No.  
 **SPOILERS:** Yes, for the S3 Tritter Arc and how it ended.  
 **SUMMARY:** Old enemies can turn up in the most unexpected places, and when those enemies are in positions of power ... all bets are off.  
 **DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **AUTHOR NOTES:** None.  
 **BETA:** My awesome First Readers, with especial thanks to [](http://k-haldane.livejournal.com/profile)[**k_haldane**](http://k-haldane.livejournal.com/) for seeing the awkward line and knowing how to make it instantly better.

 **Chapter Eight**

  
Wilson was in the dark.

Which wasn't really surprising, seeing as how, figuratively speaking, he had _been_ in the dark since the first moment he'd seen those revolving blue and red cop lights behind Winston Sen's birthday convertible.

But now he was _really_ in the dark.

The metal lid to the Pit (and that was what he was calling it -- he wasn't going to dignify this shithole with a prison name like "hotbox", no way, because surely he was in Hell and this was only one of its many Pits) had dropped shut with a loud, resounding _clang!_ , and had immediately cut off 99% of the available ambient light.

Now the only illumination was coming from one of the watchtower spotlights, aimed unerringly at the sheet-metal door, sending one lonely beam down through the narrow, barred window. It was just enough to show him his surroundings, not that he had any desire to see them.

The Pit wasn't really very deep -- he was six foot, and if he stood up and raised his right hand ( _I swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but -- this is Hell and welcome to it_ ) he could stick most of that hand through the window.

If he wanted to get it stomped back down.

The Pit was long enough for him to lie down full-length one way but not the other. So say eight feet by five. There was a pail in one corner. It stank. The walls that held back the surrounding earth appeared to be constructed of brick (it was hard to tell in the dim light); the flooring was the same roughly-poured concrete as the cellar. It sloped just slightly towards the center, where there was a drain hole set.

 _Government contractors,_ he thought. _Tritters probably hired the cheapest bastards they could find._

He lowered himself slowly to a sitting position in one of the corners, the one furtherest away from the stinking pail. His left ankle hurt. He thought he'd sprained it when the son-of-a-bitch guard had shoved him into this shit-trap; still dazed from his torture session, he'd landed awkwardly, twisting the ankle beneath him.

At least, he _hoped_ it was just twisted.

It had swollen rapidly, and was warm and tender to the touch. Wilson pulled his legs up, resting his chin on his knees and holding his thighs close to his chest. He supposed he should explore this hellhole further, map out the lay of the land, formulate a plan for ... for what?

He was naked, he was injured, he was six feet underground in a locked cell, he felt nauseous and sick, and a group of psychos had just tortured him for God knows how many hours and then tried to hang him. Plus no one knew where he was, if they were even looking for him. He was exhausted and miserable, and there was absolutely no hope he was ever getting out of here. He was going to die here, in a delirious, dehydrated agony.

Aside from that, everything was just great.

Wilson tucked his face into his arms and began to shiver ever so slightly. It was damp and cold down here, although he knew that would dissipate by morning and become ever hotter throughout the day.

"House?" he whispered. "If you're looking for me, now would be a good time to actually ... y'know ... _find_ me. Because I don't think I can last ten days here in Camp Inferno."

He sniffed, and rocked back and forth a little. He wasn't going to cry. God damn it, he wasn't.

So he told himself the moisture on his cheeks was just sweat, even though his skin was cold and clammy.

* * *

"Yes, that's right," House said. "I'm Dr. Peter Cook of the Communicable Diseases Center in Atlanta." He ignored Cuddy's shocked look and shifted the phone to his other ear.

"Right, yes -- this is about the Mercedes convertible your company rented to a Dr. Winston Sen in Las Vegas last week. The one the Hellebore County Sheriff's Department reported abandoned on -- yes, _that_ case."

Cuddy's look of shock had morphed into exasperation; she was trying to get House's attention with one of her breakfast forks but he turned away.

"I need the original police report on the vehicle," he said. "The circumstances, the names of the officers involved -- " He listened for a moment. "What? I need it because the CDC is investigating this incident. It's a matter of national security."

Cuddy was gaping now.

"Look, Sarah ... oh, sorry. Look, Sandra. The driver of that vehicle was sick. He's _highly contagious,_ and we here at the CDC need to contact the police officers who found the contaminated vehicle, because they could be infected with this deadly disease. What? What disease is it?"

House glanced up at Cuddy, who was now holding her hand over her mouth, her expression that of abject horror.

"It's Lisarian Plague," he announced confidently. "Extremely deadly, with a mortality rate of well over 99%. Yes, I'll hold."

 _"House,"_ Cuddy hissed. "What the hell are you doing? Who's Peter Cook? And why are you garbling the name of the CDC?"

"I want to talk to the cops who found the car," House said. "I'm doing what I should have done in the beginning -- going back to the trigger event and following the deductive trail. Maybe they saw something, noticed something that didn't make it in the official report." A voice squeaked in his ear. "What? Yes? Excellent. Here's the fax number." He squinted at the business card he'd pilfered from their hotel's front desk earlier, and read off the string of numbers. "Perfect." He glanced at Cuddy again. She was holding her head in her hands and mumbling to herself.

"Thank you, Sarah," House said magnanimously. "You've been a great help, and your country thanks you."

He pressed the "end call" button on his cell phone.

"Cretin," he muttered.

* * *

The harsh glare of the searchlight had been replaced by the softer glow of sunlight when the smaller hatch in the Pit door opened. The interior of the cell immediately grew brighter.

"Prisoner!" a guard shouted. "Come get your breakfast!" To emphasize his point, the guard hammered at the hatch's frame with a wooden nightstick, producing a series of loud metallic bangs.

Wilson hauled himself carefully to his feet and stood swaying for a moment. His whole body ached terribly, and he limped slowly to where the guard was holding a small paper sack of something for him. He reached up and took the sack -- all he could identify by touch was a small bottle of what he hoped was water.

His duty done, the guard closed the hatch, and Wilson was again plunged into a shadowy twilight. He sighed and limped back to his corner. Settling himself back against the wall, he unfolded the bag's top and looked inside.

Two slices of bread. Two slices of processed cheese. A plastic bottle of water. A _small_ bottle. He took it out first and checked the label. 16.9 fluid ounces. Resisting the urge to unscrew the cap and drink it all down at once, he set it aside.

He lifted out the thin sandwich and took an experimental bite. The bread was stale, and very dry. Wilson chewed it thoroughly, but it still took him two or three hard swallows to get it down his sore throat. He closed his eyes for a moment.

 _Bastards,_ he thought. _Trying to get me to waste water by using it to wash this crap down._

He took another, smaller bite, and chewed it even more carefully.

It was already uncomfortably warm.

* * *

 _"This isn't the original police report,"_ House said. His voice was eerily calm and very low. From across the room, Cuddy watched anxiously as a clearly furious House spoke again to the rental company.

"This is the _towing company's_ report, which is an entirely different thing, or hadn't you noticed?" House's knuckles where he was gripping the phone were completely white, Cuddy noticed.

"What do you mean, I can request it from the Sheriff's office? I want _you_ to fax it to _me!_ What's so hard to understand about that?"

"House ..." Cuddy said softly. House shot her an annoyed glare.

"What do you _mean,_ you haven't received it yet? I just want the names of the officers -- what?" House paused, his brow furrowed.

"The second page?" He cupped the phone against his ear with one shoulder, and shuffled the fax pages.

"Where? Oh, down there --"

The hotel room was silent. Cuddy sighed and looked out the window. In the distance, she could see the surreal sight of the Eiffel Tower rising above the Las Vegas Strip. _Need to call in,_ she thought. _Check on the hospital. Talk to House about how long we're going to be here. Got to get back --_

There was a sharp, indrawn breath behind her, and a dull thump of something landing on the carpet.

 _He's fallen!_ was her first frantic thought as she turned quickly around.

But it hadn't been House who had fallen. It was the telephone receiver. House was still upright, holding the fax papers in an apparent death grip, his face very pale and strained with some undefinable emotion.

"House? Oh my God, House, are you all right?" She hurried to his side, ignoring the tiny, squeaking vocalizations still emanating from the phone, and put her hand gently on his bicep. Wordlessly, he thrust the papers at her.

She scanned them rapidly, trying to see what had set House off like this. She could feel him trembling slightly, like a frightened horse, under her fingers.

 _Location of vehicle by Mapsco, company shall assume no responsibility, time of report, condition of vehicle, odometer reading, source of call --_

Her eyes moved quickly, following this line.

 _Hellebore County Sheriff's Department, Patrol Officers T. Davis, J. Tritter._

"Oh, _no,"_ Cuddy breathed.

* * *

"It's a coincidence," Cuddy said, with a confidence she didn't feel. "It has to be."

"It's not a coincidence," House growled. He'd called the Hellebore County Sheriff's office immediately, only to be told in an icy, officious tone that no, the Sheriff's department didn't release police reports to the general public, and no, he couldn't speak to Officers Davis and Tritter, they were both on vacation. And _no,_ this person _didn't_ know if Officer Tritter had relatives in New Jersey, and even if they did they wouldn't tell him because it was none of his business.

Sir.

House was fuming.

"They've done something," he said flatly. He was thumping around the hotel room like a wounded bear, pausing occasionally to wave his cane to accent a point. "Tritter and this other guy pulled Wilson over for whatever reason, and when Tritter saw the name on the license he decided to take matters into his own hands."

"House, this isn't the Old West," Cuddy protested, trying to calm him down. "They're _cops_ \-- they're not going to endanger their careers by indulging in vigilante justice!"

House stopped pacing and stared at her. "No? Tell that to _Michael_ Tritter -- in the end he didn't care if I went to rehab or not. It was all about pride, and rage, and going for the throat over his lost fucking dignity."

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm going back to Hellebore County," House snapped, brushing past her and picking up the car keys off the desk. "I'm going to see Samuelsson and get some real answers."

* * *

Tooey stood next to the entrance to the mess tent, smoking a cigarette and feeling like crap.

Dr. Wilson was in the hotbox, and he'd helped put him there. The bitch of it was, there'd been no other choice. It was a cosmic joke of monstrous proportions -- for Wilson to have sneaked into the Warden's office at the same time he was there -- Christ, it had been a close thing. If the doc had made that call and people had started asking questions too early, everything, all the careful plans, all the logistics, all the hard work that had gone into this could've been ruined.

He still felt like crap.

A shadow joined his. Tooey didn't look up.

"Indians are bringing Kraznik up from the minors early," the guard said. Tooey tried to look unconcerned, but he knew his heartrate had just taken a jump.

"Really? That's a surprise," he mused. The guard, a short, stocky guy, nodded.

"It's for the interleague game," he replied. "Couple nights away, at the Jake."

"Bet they'll sell a lot of tickets for that one," Tooey murmured.

"Oh yeah," the guard agreed. "Standing room only. Everybody wants to see a no-hitter."

Tooey took one last drag on the cigarette and then flipped it into the dirt. His mind was already elsewhere, skimming over the details of what he needed to do.

 _Gotta get ready,_ he thought. _Bases are loaded with no outs._

* * *

Wilson sat with his back against the wall, taking slow, shallow breaths, trying to keep himself from panting like a dog.

 _Shit,_ but it was hot.

Lunch had been another dry bread-and-cheese sandwich and another small bottle of water. He still had a quarter-bottle from breakfast, so he'd finished that with lunch and saved the new bottle.

He'd taken his first sip from it a few minutes ago. He didn't know if he'd get another one with dinner or not.

Or if they'd even give him dinner.

The air in the Pit was heavy and stifling. Wilson could feel himself sweating profusely, the droplets running down his shoulder blades and stomach, pooling on the concrete floor beneath him.

That was good. As long as he was sweating, that was good. It was when he _stopped_ sweating that he'd have real problems.

From outside, he could hear the everyday noises of the camp. Every now and then, a guard walked over his sheet metal door, sending dull metallic echoes downward.

He had a persistent headache, and his stomach kept wanting to rebel against the stale bread and warm cheese.

He'd tried touching the sheet metal earlier, and had snatched his hand away, hissing at the pain in his burned fingers.

 _Feels like ... 108, 110 degrees in here,_ Wilson thought. _Maybe more._ He rested his head against the wall and wiped the sweat out of his face. More ran down immediately; his hair was plastered against his forehead with it.

He tried not think about how hot it might get tomorrow.

* * *

 _"Samuelsson!"_ House roared.

"Sir! Detective Samuelsson isn't here! I told you that!" The receptionist was on the verge of panic, House could tell. Good. Panicky people tended to blurt things out.

"Of course he isn't," House snapped. "Just like Davis and Tritter are so conveniently on vacation this week. _Samuelsson!"_

"Sir, _please!_ It's illegal to cause a disturbance in the Sheriff's department!"

"It is, is it? Is it also illegal to _kidnap_ people in this State? To hold them against their will? To --"

"Dr. House."

House stopped shouting and turned around.

"Shall we discuss this in my office?" Detective Samuelsson said.

* * *

"Well, now." The detective leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers together. He looked thoughtfully at House. "I admire your tenacity, Doctor, and your ability to weave this ... fairy tale ... out of whole cloth, but I can assure you, that's all it is -- a fairy tale."

House watched him silently.

"I've known Joe Tritter a long time, and trust me -- he has no family in New Jersey or anywhere else on the East Coast. He's a native Nevadan born and bred; his family has been here since the 1880's and wields a lot of influence in this state."

"I want to see their report," House said. "Davis and Tritter's report on the abandoned car."

Samuelsson shook his head.

"I'm afraid I can't do that," he said. "We don't release those --"

"I know, I know. To the general public. So what have you done with Wilson? Or -- I'll give you the benefit of the doubt. Maybe _you're_ not involved. Maybe it's just Tritter who's got Wilson stashed somewhere."

Samuelsson stared at him.

"Dr. House, are you accusing a law enforcement officer of _kidnapping?"_

"Prove to me that he didn't," House shot back, but Samuelsson was already settling back in his chair. He was eyeing House with a calculating, speculative look.

"Let's say you're right," he said suddenly. "Let's say, Dr. House, that your reputation has preceded you, and that someone here in Hellebore County is carrying a grudge. A situation presents itself, they see an opportunity to do you personal or ... emotional harm, and they take it. _Voila,_ one missing man, and one friend searching for him."

Detective Samuelsson smiled. It was a wide smile that reminded House of a tiger shark, and he felt a cold knot form in his gut. Samuelsson leaned forward across his desk and laid his palms flat on its surface.

 _"Who would believe you?"_ he whispered. His smile grew wider. "Go back to New Jersey, Dr. House."

* * *

The sun was sinking into the west as House drove back to Las Vegas.

For once, his mind was blank. As much as he hated it, the detective had been right. Who would believe this story? What could he say?

 _Help me, because I pissed off a New Jersey cop and his third cousin once removed on his mother's side has kidnapped my best friend. Help me, because I'm an addict and I screwed over my best friend and now he's paying for it._

 _Help me, because I have better friends than I deserve._

He felt like he was in a box, with no way out.

The lights of a diner up ahead and a sudden grumble from his stomach reminded him that he hadn't eaten since breakfast.

* * *

"And then I said, I said, 'Frances, you know how my hair always bleaches out something awful in the sun? Well, I'm going to try that new girl over to the San Remo Spa -- I've heard she's a professional graduate of the Perfect Curl Beauty College in Gila City, and that she can just do _wonders_ with mature ladies' hair!'"

House choked on his cup of coffee and quickly disguised it as a coughing fit. The two old women in the next booth looked at him with some concern, but he waved them off. They watched him a moment more to make sure he was all right, then continued their conversation.

He leaned back and closed his eyes, letting their soft voices wash over him in a soothing flow. He was so tired; his leg ached and he fished his Vicodin bottle from his jeans pocket. House thought of the notes he'd written just yesterday -- possible leads, things to check, hacking to be done. It seemed so useless now, so pathetically --

" -- Tritter camp."

House's eyes snapped open.

"Which boy was this?" one of the old women asked.

"Oh, you know -- it was Toby, Doreen's son. He'd had a job at the Wal-Mart, but this was too good an opportunity to pass up. His mama didn't want him to at first, but he swore up and down he wouldn't be carrying a gun or be around any of those _dangerous_ inmates -- he's a cook, not a guard."

"Well, I don't know about that, Alice. I've heard some terrible things about the poor men who end up in _that_ camp. I'm sure they're not true, though."

"Yes, and you know what they say -- those men must've done _something_ bad. Otherwise they wouldn't be in prison."

House rolled his eyes and scribbled on a napkin.

 _Tritter. Prison camp? Ask Broom._

* * *

Wilson lay on the floor of the Pit, arms and legs outspread, and waited for his nausea and dizziness to pass.

His head was pounding, and he felt like he was suffocating in the thick, unmoving air. Evening was coming on, he could tell from the way the sunlight was fading from the barred window, but the afternoon heat had taken its toll.

It had to have been at least 115 degrees in the Pit at the height of the day, the sun blasting down at the sheet metal, radiating its heat throughout the cell. He hadn't been able to eat the last cheese sandwich of the day; he'd simply taken the little bottle of water that came with it and poured some of it over his head. That had helped some, but he'd still felt terribly weak.

Another wave of nausea hit and Wilson turned on his side in case he threw up. God, he didn't want to throw up.

Maybe later, when he was in need of some real entertainment.

He pressed his cheek to the concrete. His scalp itched, and he felt filthy, slimy with rancid sweat.

 _I must really stink,_ he thought. _No cologne here. No blow-dryers. House's got no reason to yell at me._

The thought of House calmed him for a moment and eased his panting.

He closed his eyes and allowed himself to drift away. Tomorrow he'd do this all over again.

And tomorrow night, he'd lie here again, and think about Princeton-Plainsboro, and Cuddy, and what the cafeteria might be serving that day, and how he'd put two big glasses of iced tea on his tray just so he could watch the drops of condensation run down the sides.

And he'd think about House.

It would be his reward for living through another day.

  
~ [Chapter Nine](http://community.livejournal.com/house_wilson/1604703.html?#cutid1)

 **NOTE:**  
More information about the great British comedian, actor, and writer Peter Cook may be found [here](http://www.swphydraulics.co.uk/petercook/).

  



	9. </b>  Welcome to Wherever You Are

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Old enemies can turn up in the most unexpected places, and when those enemies are in positions of power ... all bets are off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> None.

_**Welcome to Wherever You Are (9/11)**_  
Cross-posted to [](http://sick-wilson.livejournal.com/profile)[**sick_wilson**](http://sick-wilson.livejournal.com/).  
 **TITLE:** Welcome to Wherever You Are  
 **AUTHOR:** [](http://nightdog-writes.livejournal.com/profile)[**nightdog_writes**](http://nightdog-writes.livejournal.com/)  
 **PAIRING:** House-Wilson, strong friendship, other OCs  
 **RATING:** A strong "R".  
 **WARNINGS:** Yes, for a scene of graphic violence that may prove distressing to some readers.  
 **SPOILERS:** Yes, for the S3 Tritter Arc and how it ended.  
 **SUMMARY:** Old enemies can turn up in the most unexpected places, and when those enemies are in positions of power ... all bets are off.  
 **DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **AUTHOR NOTES:** None.  
 **BETA:** My awesome First Readers, with especial thanks to [](http://ticcyyy.livejournal.com/profile)[**ticcyyy**](http://ticcyyy.livejournal.com/) and [](http://blackmare-9.livejournal.com/profile)[**blackmare_9**](http://blackmare-9.livejournal.com/) for their timely and excellent critiques.

  
 **Chapter Nine**

  
Wilson woke up angry.

He was angry because he'd been dreaming of swimming pools, their clean blue chlorinated water, sparkling and splashing and refreshing, and he'd been just about to dive in and let the water wash away the filth and sweat from his body -- but then he'd woken up here, in this stinking hot shithole.

He was angry because he was _in_ this stinking hot shithole and wasn't getting out for another --

And then he was angry because he wasn't _completely_ sure how many days had passed already, or whether his sadistic captors were counting from the first night or the first dawn, and why the _hell_ was that making him think of _"And there was evening and there was morning, one day,"_ and his mind was running in these bizarre little circles --

But mostly he was angry because --

 _Irritability is one of the first signs of heat exhaustion,_ his brain helpfully informed him.

"You shut the fuck up," Wilson growled, and it did.

He rolled over onto his stomach, slowly, and took stock.

Aches and pains throughout his body. Check. Headache. Check. Fatigue. Weakness. Muscle cramps. Check, check, not yet. He pulled himself to a sitting position, using the wall to prop himself up. He reached for the water bottle from yesterday -- he'd managed to save most of it -- unscrewed the cap, and took a tiny sip. His hands were trembling and he grunted as a few drops spilled down his chin and traced shiny quicksilver paths through the grime on his chest.

There was a metallic squeak as the hatch opened. A paper bag appeared, dangling from a guard's hand.

"Prisoner! Come get your breakfast!"

"Bite me," Wilson muttered, but he got up (slowly), limped over (slowly), and took the bag.

Dry bread. Cheese. Water.

 _God damn it,_ Wilson thought. _I am going to be so fucking constipated._

* * *

"Tritter's labor camps are positioned here, here, here, and here."

House peered closely at the map Detective Broom had unfolded across his desk. "Those are all in Hellebore County," he said.

"Not surprising," Broom responded dryly. "Seeing as how the Tritters own most of it."

"When were you going to tell me that?" House demanded.

"Why would it matter?" the detective countered. His tone was one of honest puzzlement, and House bit back a retort. He couldn't tell the police he thought the Tritters were playing a vicious game with him, daring him to alienate the very people he needed for help by relating a tale they'd either dismiss outright or worse, think completely insane.

Besides, he'd used one of the PCs in the hotel's conference center earlier this morning, to look at the Hellebore County's governmental website. Three of the four council members -- Tritters. The mayor, the Sheriff, many of the detectives and police officers, two judges, other officials -- all Tritters. The whole county was crawling with them, like a nest of scorpions.

"So the State of Nevada farms out its dirty work to private hands," House said in a voice laced with sarcasm.

"As do many other states, Dr. House," the detective replied mildly. "Too many prisoners, not enough money. Money that needs to be spent on providing services for our _law-abiding_ citizens." He shrugged. "Private prisons are a big business in America today. CCA, Geo, Cornell -- take a look at their annual statements sometime. Put them all together and we're talking profits, _big_ profits. Not millions of dollars, but _billions."_ He gave House a wry smile. "Like they say -- it's a dirty business, but somebody's got to do it."

* * *

"House," Cuddy exclaimed, "that was a fascinating discourse on economics and profit margins, but what does it have to do with you not coming back to the hotel?"

"I'm going to check into a motel in Hellebore County," House yelled back. Cuddy flinched and held the phone away from her ear. It sounded like he was already on the road; the cell connection was cutting in and out and so the two of them had been shouting as if each were trying to get the other to understand a badly-spoken foreign language. "I'm going to pay a visit to each of those camps, ask some questions!"

 _"What?_ House -- _no._ You need to let the police handle this!"

"They haven't been handling it so far," he shouted. "You should go back to Princeton. There's nothing you can do here and you'll be safer."

"I'll be -- what? What do you mean, _safer?_ House, _what the hell is going on? House?"_

She looked at the cell's tiny viewscreen. _No signal._

 _Great. Just great,_ she thought, and rubbed at her forehead with one hand. _My Head of Oncology is **still** missing, and now House has lost his mind._

* * *

Detective Alvin Samuelsson sat in front of the Warden's desk and watched calmly as Greg Tritter's face changed colors. Pink, then red, then an astonishing shade of purple. Samuelsson wondered for a moment if the man would have a heart attack right there in the office.

"He _what?"_

"He came to me yesterday asking questions," Samuelsson repeated. "And now he's visiting the camps, one by one, asking questions."

"And what are you doing about it?" the Warden spluttered.

Samuelsson popped a stick of gum in his mouth. "Welcoming him with open arms. Offering him tours. Letting him talk to any inmate he wants." Seeing that Tritter was about to explode again, he adopted a soothing tone. "Relax. The only camps that are on the map are One through Four -- he'll never find Five, and even if he does, what will he see? We'll tell him this is a maximum-security prison and he can't talk to anyone. It'll piss him off, but so what? Wilson should be dead by then anyway."

The Warden sat for a moment, thinking.

"You're right," he said finally. A slow smile grew on his face, and Samuelsson looked away. "But let's make sure by speeding up the process a little. I'll have the guards pay him a little visit, give him an important news bulletin. That should do the trick."

* * *

The Pit's door opened with a grating, creaking scream of metal on metal, and Wilson yelped and covered his eyes against the blazing flood of light.

 _What? Not time ... this isn't right --_

He peeked out from behind one forearm and watched as three guards jumped lightly into the cell. The small space was suddenly very crowded.

One of the guards was carrying a lantern; he set it down on the floor and turned it on. He motioned to someone at ground level, and the door clanged back down. It was dark, then light again as Wilson's eyes adjusted to the soft glow from the lantern.

"Get up, prisoner," one of the guards said. He was tapping something against one palm, and Wilson strained to see what it was. "Got some news for you." The _something_ gradually resolved into a handle, with an odd flopping motion at the end, like leather straps --

It was a whip, like a riding crop or an abbreviated cat o'nine tails.

Wilson moaned softly and scrunched himself into the corner as much as he possibly could.

"No," he whispered.

"Wrong answer," the guard said mildly. "Get him out of there."

Wilson wrapped his arms around his body and braced himself. The corner walls pressed uncomfortably against his back and shoulders but still he tried to wedge himself in even tighter.

It was no use. The guards were big men, well-muscled and well-fed, and it was a simple matter for them to grab Wilson's ankles and pull him away from his pitiful shelter.

He cried out as his injured left leg registered a strong protest, sending a lance of pain shooting up his thigh and into his back. The guards kicked him for a while as he laid writhing on the floor; one of them, apparently delighted at having discovered a new weak point in their helpless prisoner, stomped repeatedly on Wilson's ankle with the heel of his boot. Wilson tried to haul himself up on his elbows, to curl back up, anything to escape the agony, but another guard planted a foot squarely on his back, holding him firmly in place as the attack continued.

"That's enough," the first guard ordered, sounding bored. "Cuff him and get him up."

Wilson could only moan as one of his tormentors toed a boot under his shoulder and rolled him over. They handcuffed his wrists in front of him, then strong, rough hands gripped his shoulders, his biceps, his _hair_ , and with a concerted _ooof!_ of effort he was hauled to his feet.

He gritted his teeth and tried desperately not to cry out again, but the fiery pain in his shoulder sockets blazed up as the guards forced his arms over his head. He couldn't hold back the animal-like wail that welled up from deep within his chest. The guards ignored him and tied the handcuff chain to one of the bars in the window overhead.

The guards stepped away, and for a moment the only sound in the cell was that of Wilson's harsh breathing.

"Warden wanted us to give you a message," the first guard said laconically, as if nothing had just happened.

"Couldn't he just phone it in?" Wilson rasped. He felt light-headed and fuzzy, as if reality had taken a big step backwards and was drifting just out of reach.

The guard considered this for a moment.

"Funny," he said at last, and Wilson gasped and tried to jerk away as the short whip smacked hard across his groin. The leather straps _burned,_ scoring a series of immediate red welts that started at his navel and disappeared into his matted pubic hair.

"Your friend's been sniffing 'round, asking questions."

"What -- friend?" Wilson was still gasping for breath. He stumbled, attempting to keep his weight off his screaming ankle.

"You've only _got_ one friend," the guard snorted. "That bastard House."

Wilson stood still, trying to take in what the guard was telling him.

"He's good -- gotta give him that. He found this camp last night."

"No," Wilson mumbled. "He wasn't -- he couldn't -- "

"Yup," the guard replied amiably. "Caught him too."

Wilson's head filled up with a terrible roaring sound as reality slid further away. He pulled at his restraints. The steel cuffs bit into his already-abraded, raw wrists but he didn't notice. "No," he said numbly.

"Oh yes," the guard said. "Boys had some fun with him -- took away his cane and he could still move pretty fast, even being crippled up like he was. They'd let him get quite a ways before they'd trip him and bring him back -- do it again."

The other two guards snickered.

"No," Wilson whispered again.

The first guard was looking into the distance, as if remembering the funny, funny sight. "Yup," he mused. "He ran pretty good for a gimp."

"Oh, _God."_ Wilson was finding it very hard to breathe.

The guard looked back at Wilson and shrugged. "'Course, after a while he was too weak to run anymore and the Warden took charge. After that he wasn't much good for anything else so we took him out in the desert a ways and shot him."

Wilson's knees buckled.

"Buried him out there early this morning." He smiled at Wilson. "Too bad you couldn't have been there. It was just us guards. Williams here said a real nice prayer too." He stepped back and away, and drove one booted foot down on the paper bag containing Wilson's uneaten lunch.

"You won't be needing this," he said as the plastic water bottle inside the bag exploded, shooting spray everywhere. "Or these." He started to gather up the other bottles Wilson had saved, and quirked an eyebrow at the amount of water still in some of them.

"Resourceful son of a bitch, ain't'cha? You might actually've made it ten days." He handed the short whip over to one of his fellow guards. "Cassidy. Williams. Punish the prisoner for hoarding his water."

The whip's straps whistled down on Wilson's back. After a while, the brutal slaps of the leather and the prisoner's anguished cries were indistinguishable, and echoed together off the cell's hot brick walls.

* * *

Cuddy lay on the hotel bed, staring at the ceiling. The big flatscreen television, nicer than any the hospital had, nattered away in the background.

 _What am I doing here?_ she thought.

She'd tried repeatedly to call House, but each time had had the same maddening result -- the attempted communication had gone directly to voicemail.

She had gone to the hotel's business center, pulled up names of motels and inns in Hellebore County, and had begun calling them, working her way down the list. Some had been overly friendly, others curt and dismissive, but House hadn't been registered at any of them.

Or maybe he'd been registered under some other name, something that would fit right in with his conspiracy theories, like Dick Nixon or Alfred Dreyfus or even G. Rassy Knoll.

God, she hated him sometimes.

She'd stay here one more day. Maybe he'd turn up. Maybe he'd call.

Maybe monkeys would fly out of her butt.

Cuddy fell asleep fully dressed, the TV still murmuring to itself.

* * *

This really was a "no-tell-motel" House thought, watching through the big picture window of his room as a woman who was obviously a man and a man who was obviously drunk passed by outside.

The motel was small and old-fashioned, built in a U-shape around the central parking lot. An ice machine was a few doors down and he'd bought a bottle of scotch at a package store, so he figured he was set for the night.

He'd been frustrated by his visits to two of the four camps today -- someone, Samuelsson probably -- had clearly called ahead and instructed the various labor camp officials to allow him entrance, treat him like a visiting dignitary and give him free rein.

Everyone had been solicitous, answering every question, introducing him to inmates, all of whom had appeared to be healthy, well-fed, and reasonably content.

As content as one could be, of course, locked up and surrounded by barbed wire and tall watchtowers. Like he so easily could've been, if his friends hadn't protected him.

He wrenched his train of thought back to Nevada.

He'd learned nothing, and he was sure he'd learn nothing at the last two camps tomorrow.

He'd run into another stone wall, and he couldn't see a fucking way around it. All his logic, all his reasoning ability, all his flashes of insight had abandoned him.

House dragged a weary hand over his face and reached into his jeans pocket. The quarter he pulled out was worn to a dull silver, and he looked at it for a moment, wondering if it was one of Wilson's quarters that he'd missed somehow.

He rubbed at his eyes again. It was just a quarter. He turned onto his side on the bed and fed it into the slot of the small metal box labeled _"Magic Fingers! A massage in your own bed!"_ that was affixed to the headboard.

After a moment the hidden motor started, and the narrow bed began to quiver and shake.

House fell asleep and dreamed of earthquakes and shifting tectonic plates.

* * *

Wilson was lost.

He had no idea how long he'd been lying here, his face turned towards the wall.

The guards had taken turns beating him, one with the short, strapped whip, the other with a flexible rubber truncheon. He had a dim memory of hanging by his wrists, completely limp as the vicious blows had continued to land.

He'd been crying by then, he remembered that -- silent tears that had run down his cheeks and dripped onto the floor, but whether they were for himself or House, he didn't know.

Wilson swallowed. It was painful -- his throat was dry but there was nothing he could do about it.

The guards had poured out all his saved water, tipped it down the drain as one of them had held his head up and forced him to watch.

Needless to say, there'd been no dinner, dry cheese sandwich or otherwise that night, and he didn't really think there'd be anything tomorrow.

This was it.

He shifted a little. They'd left his hands cuffed in front of him, the mean fucks. Probably make it easier for them to haul his dead body out of this shit trap. Wilson moaned softly. The muscle cramps had begun, and it was all he could do to keep himself straight and wait for them to pass. He wasn't sure of the last time he'd taken a piss.

God, he felt so dizzy, and it was so goddamn _hot_.

"Wilson!"

Wilson didn't move.

"Aw, c'mon -- hey! Wilson!"

"Go 'way," Wilson mumbled. "Yer dead."

"I think that's best left for _me_ to decide."

Wilson turned his head just a little. House was there, sitting in the chair from his Diagnostics office at Princeton-Plainsboro, his feet propped comfortably on the matching ottoman. He was sipping from a tall glass of something iced, something clear that he could see through and count the cold drops of condensation sliding down the other side.

"Fuck you," Wilson whispered.

"Oh, quit being such a crybaby!" House sounded annoyed. "Aren't you going to even _try?"_

"Tired of tryin'. Tried for long time." Wilson pushed the words as best he could through his cracked, bleeding lips. "Tried with _you_ for long time -- never worked. Tried to get you pay attention, take care yerself. You just laughed. Just -- _ah!"_

Wilson keened as a violent stomach cramp seized his gut; he curled into a fetal ball and rocked. A fresh wave of nausea washed over him and he felt as if the cell walls were spinning -- he moved one hand from his belly and pressed his palm against the rough concrete to try and steady himself.

 _"Oh God,"_ he whimpered. "Oh God oh god oh god."

"Really hurts, huh?" House said sympathetically.

"What do ... you think?" The cramp passed and Wilson sank back against the floor, exhausted.

"Come on, Jimmy." House's voice was low, almost purring, and filled with the patented Houseian _coaxing_ that had always gotten him everything he'd wanted in the past. "Don't you want to live? For me?"

Wilson squeezed his eyes shut against the gathering darkness.

"I'm _dying_ for you," he gritted out. "Isn't that enough?"

House didn't reply, and when Wilson next looked around, he was gone.

  
~ [Chapter Ten](http://community.livejournal.com/house_wilson/1606924.html?#cutid1)

  
Financial numbers for CCA may be found [here](http://finance.google.com/finance?q=CXW).  
A fascinating article from the Wall Street Journal on the private prison business in the U.S. is [here](http://online.wsj.com/article/SB118022826756215918.html?mod=googlenews_wsj).

  



	10. </b>  Welcome to Wherever You Are

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Old enemies can turn up in the most unexpected places, and when those enemies are in positions of power ... all bets are off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part of Wilson's dream in this chapter was written by [](http://asynca.livejournal.com/profile)[**asynca**](http://asynca.livejournal.com/), who did a much better job than I.

_**Welcome to Wherever You Are (10/11)**_  
Cross-posted to [](http://sick-wilson.livejournal.com/profile)[**sick_wilson**](http://sick-wilson.livejournal.com/).  
 **TITLE:** Welcome to Wherever You Are  
 **AUTHOR:** [](http://nightdog-writes.livejournal.com/profile)[**nightdog_writes**](http://nightdog-writes.livejournal.com/)  
 **PAIRING:** House-Wilson, strong friendship, other OCs  
 **RATING:** A strong "R".  
 **WARNINGS:** No.  
 **SPOILERS:** Yes, for the S3 Tritter Arc and how it ended.  
 **SUMMARY:** Old enemies can turn up in the most unexpected places, and when those enemies are in positions of power ... all bets are off.  
 **DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **AUTHOR NOTES:** Part of Wilson's dream in this chapter was written by [](http://asynca.livejournal.com/profile)[**asynca**](http://asynca.livejournal.com/) , who did a much better job than I.  
 **BETA:** My awesome First Readers, with especial thanks to [](http://bironic.livejournal.com/profile)[**bironic**](http://bironic.livejournal.com/) , [](http://ticcyyy.livejournal.com/profile)[**ticcyyy**](http://ticcyyy.livejournal.com/) , and [](http://blackmare-9.livejournal.com/profile)[**blackmare_9**](http://blackmare-9.livejournal.com/).

  


  
 **Chapter Ten**

 _Wilson is dreaming._

 _Majestic ice floes, polar oceans, bears and Arctic foxes. Siberian tundra and birch forests. Trout streams in northern woods, grizzlies and caribou, reindeer and sleighs, **Citizen Kane** and Rosebud. Snow falling out of a silent grey sky, covering everything under white down quilts in a quiet, quiet dream._

 _He doesn’t think he’s had breakfast; but he’s not hungry, so he must have. He can’t remember a drop of water passing his lips, but he feels comfortable, cool – he probably scooped up a handful of the snow surrounding him and buried his chilled lips in it._

 _Someone was walking with him, earlier; they were talking, reminiscing. He must have taken a different track than Wilson, because when Wilson spins around, eyes scanning the tundra for him, he’s gone._

 _He doesn't know what day of the week it is, or what month. Everything is the same here, wherever **here** is._

 _His systems are starting to shut down._

 _He's stopped sweating._

* * *

"No, I'm _not_ looking for Area 51," House told the gas station attendant. "The aliens are already here among us, looking for brains to take up to the Mothership, which obviously means _they're not going to take you!_ Now can you tell me what side road this is on this map? Because it's not labeled -- the cartographer must've lost his colored pencils that day!"

Instead of answering, the attendant -- a young kid with jet black hair, spiked into a Mohawk -- backed away.

"Moron," House growled, and drove off.

He'd visited the third Tritter labor camp early that morning, hoping to catch at least a few inhabitants unawares, but it had been just like all the others -- happy officials, happy guards, and happy, brainwashed inmates.

At least, House _assumed_ they were brainwashed. How else could they be so happy? No one could be that happy, cooped up in prison, no control over their lives, an endless, suffocating boredom, all the tomorrows creeping in their petty pace from day to day ...

House blinked as he realized he was quoting Shakespeare.

Still. He would've killed himself.

* * *

There must have been a certain eternal insane optimism, House thought, that had prompted someone to put a park bench in front of a rest stop, at which the only attraction appeared to be an ever-growing collection of sagebrush, tumbleweeds, fornicating prairie dogs and jackrabbits.

Optimism that anyone would ever stop here, and _insane_ optimism that anyone would find rest here.

House laid Broom's map beside him on the bench and bent over, resting his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands.

He was never going to find Wilson. The trail of breadcrumbs had long since been devoured, the Minotaur was at the gate, and Elvis had left the building.

For the first time since the infarction, House thought the world just might win this round.

A shadow fell over the bench, throwing the folded map into darkness.

"Wow, dude," someone said. "Are you okay? You look like you just lost your best friend."

House looked up. The man standing beside him loomed as a solid black mass, silhouetted against the sun. He held something out, and House caught a familiar, distinctive odor.

"Want some fries?" the guy said.

* * *

"I'm Jack," said Jack. He'd taken a seat, uninvited, beside House and was now carefully unwrapping a McDonald's Quarter Pounder with Cheese, licking his fingers as shreds of melted yellow cheddar stuck to them.

He was of medium height, casually dressed in jeans and a plain, dark blue t-shirt. His straight black hair, shot through with strands of grey, was tied back in a ponytail with a thin leather thong, and he had a broad, tanned face and slightly flattened nose. His eyes were dark brown, almost black, and he whistled softly as he folded back the greasy paper.

"Jack," House said skeptically. "You got a last name?"

"Quetzalcoatl," Jack said. "Tiresias. Black Elk. Obadiah. Wovoka. We are all known by many names in our passage through this sphere." He took a big bite of his hamburger.

House snorted. "Great," he said. "Got any more New Age bullshit you want to spout? Any mantras you want to share? Although Wovoka's a good choice around here -- the guy who invented the Ghost Dance and convinced his followers their button-downs could stop bullets."

Jack stopped chewing for a moment and looked at him. "Very good," he said. "Not many whites around who could've made that connection. Does it really matter what my last name is?"

"No," House admitted grudgingly. He rubbed tiredly at his eyes.

"So what's the deal?" Jack asked. "Who died? Who didn't die? Who _should_ die? Coyote playing tricks on you? Raven? Egyptians on your trail? Seen a white buffalo calf in your dreams? Cortez just land on your shore? Need Stonemother to rock you to sleep? Wanna buy some peyote buttons?"

House stared. "You ask a lot of questions," he said at last.

"And you don't seem to have any answers." Jack took another bite of his burger and looked seriously at House. "Funny how that is."

* * *

Warden Tritter leaned back in his chair and smiled. The latest report from the hotbox was excellent.

According to the guard who'd lifted the hatch and peeked in, the prisoner was mostly comatose, lying in his own filth and waking only to mumble nonsense syllables to hallucinations and ghosts. He'd been racked by increasingly powerful cramps, and often appeared to be gasping for breath.

The recorded temperature inside the cell was 118 degrees.

The Warden's smile widened.

 _Quite the ugly end for such a respected doctor,_ he thought. _I was right -- my little "news bulletin" broke the man; the beating and starvation were just the icing on the cake._ The Warden grinned at his own metaphor. Mike had told him the whole story -- the hoarded pills, the forged prescriptions, the liars who'd kept the arrogant son of a bitch from going to jail. _The man made a mockery of the judicial system,_ he thought. Well, Dr. Wilson would die alone and in agony -- and that cocksure junkie with the six hundred pills would never know what had happened.

The Warden laughed softly as he reached for the tall glass of iced tea that had come with his lunch. No, definitely not enough pills in the world to ease that bastard's _chronic pain_ now.

Oh, today was going to be a _very_ good day indeed.

* * *

Lisa Cuddy had reached a decision. She tossed her napkin on the table and called for the check.

She'd heard no news. No news of Wilson, no news from House, no new leads, thank you very much we're doing all we can.

Well, that was it. She'd reached the end of her patience. House could stay out here and indulge in all the crazy conspiracy theories he wanted -- _she_ needed to get back to the hospital.

She'd decide what to do from there.

Cuddy pulled her cell phone from her purse and prepared to book a seat on the last flight out of Vegas that night. She would stay as long as she could today, but her hospital was her first responsibility, and she knew that.

Why, then, did she feel so terrible?

* * *

" -- and that's what I think happened," House finished, and sat silently. He'd told the man on the park bench beside him everything, starting all the way back with the return of his leg pain after the failure of the ketamine treatment.

It had seemed of the utmost importance not to leave anything out, even though he had barely been able to speak above a whisper at times, in certain parts of the story.

He'd finished it with the events of the past week, and how he'd been looking, but there were just no clues, nothing to go on, and he felt so _helpless_. And that wasn't how Gregory House was supposed to feel.

The hamburger had long since been eaten, the paper wrapper wadded up and placed in a trash bin, and still Jack sat silently.

"Well?" House asked roughly. His throat felt constricted. He didn't know why he'd told this stranger all these things.

"Dude, that's one hell of a story," Jack said at last. "You sure you're not really a writer or something?"

"Ah, crap," House groaned, and started to get up.

"No, no -- wait!" Jack put a large hand on his shoulder and gently pulled him back down. "I believe you, I really do. The Tritters run this county like their personal fiefdom, and there've been plenty of rumors about folks disappearing before your friend. Come on now. So you've talked to the police, and you've talked to some of the cops here, and you've been to the camps --"

"Three of them," House said. "Visiting the last one this afternoon, but I already know I won't learn anything new. That's the ... what?"

Jack was looking at him with narrowed eyes. "Four camps? They told you there were four camps?"

House nodded, puzzled. "Yeah. The detective in Vegas -- Broom -- he pointed them out on the map."

His companion was shaking his head. "Oh, dude," he said. "Everybody in Hellebore County knows there's _five_ camps."

* * *

"Are you sure that's _it?"_ House asked accusingly. He peered back over the ridge. "It's hardly bigger than a football field!"

"Easier to keep an eye on the people you want to _keep_ there," Jack replied dryly. "That's it, doc, and if your friend isn't a _tso'ape_ yet, that's where he is."

House frowned. "What language is that? Shouldn't you be speaking Paiute?"

"Shoshoni." He caught House's curious stare. "I ... uh ... travel around a lot."

House was sweating; Jack appeared to be perfectly comfortable as the Nevada sun crept past its zenith. They'd left House's rental car by the side of the dirt road -- Jack had ridden shotgun, leading them on a circuitous route along back roads and gravel paths as they'd gotten further and further off the beaten track.

The really tricky part, though, had been climbing this ridge -- the loose scree and gravel underfoot had been extremely treacherous, and House had almost fallen twice before he'd finally taken the hand Jack had stretched out in assistance.

They'd finally gotten to the top, and lay on their stomachs as they poked their heads cautiously over the edge.

"Well, it's still pretty damn small," House growled. "Come on, let's go take a closer look."

"Whoa! No, no, no!" Jack grabbed his bicep even as House started to lever himself up. He pulled House back down and kept a tight grip on his arm.

"First off, _you_ are not the Lone Ranger, and _I_ am sure as hell not your Tonto. _We_ are not going to go marching down there -- that place has a bad reputation for a reason. _You_ are going to wait until at least sundown, when the light gets long and the shadows play tricks on the guards' eyes. Okay?"

House ground his teeth in frustration. As much as he hated to admit it, Jack was right. It wouldn't do Wilson any good if House got himself killed now, when he was so close. He dropped his head back against the dirt and sighed.

"Okay," he agreed. "But as long we're here you can make yourself useful. Teach me some Shoshoni. Teach me how to count to ten."

* * *

" -- and Woman missed her children so much that her tears formed a great lake, and she sat there for so long that she turned to stone. And that is the story that the Pyramid Lake people, the _Kuyuidokado,_ tell about Stonemother."

"I thought you said you were Shoshoni," House mumbled, nearly asleep. The warmth of the sun on his face and the heated soil under his back had relaxed him, and he felt curiously _boneless._

"Nah, I didn't say that," Jack replied. "I'm not originally from around here."

"Where _are_ you from? You Navajo? Lakota? You from the East Coast? Mohawk?"

Jack laughed. "No," he said. "I'm -- "

He sat up suddenly, his eyes narrowing. "What the hell's that?"

House sat up too. "What's what?"

Jack pointed. _"That,"_ he said.

A black line, V-shaped like a skein of migrating geese, was rapidly approaching out of the west. Out of the setting sun.

House squinted. _What the hell?_

A clattering roar grew in the air as the black line swept closer. The ground began to shake.

 _"Holy SHIT!"_ Jack screamed, and threw himself on his stomach, hugging the earth.

House lay flat, his heart pounding, exhilaration and adrenaline flooding his system as the attacking Apache and Black Hawk helicopters streaked overhead, their bellies seemingly close enough to touch. They disappeared over the ridge.

The wash from the choppers' rotors stirred up a whirlwind of sand and vegetation, and for a moment it was impossible to see. House gradually became aware of Jack sitting up next to him, scrubbing at his eyes and spitting out grit. The roar of the helicopters had barely lessened -- it was obvious they were hovering somewhere very close by. The deafening rapid-fire explosions of 30 mm cannons firing made both men duck again and cover their heads.

"Damn, dude!" Jack yelled. "You didn't tell me they were filming a _Die Hard_ movie out here!"

House rolled over and peered over the ridge.

The helicopters were in station over the camp, firing at the wooden legs of the guard towers and into the dirt. Bullets spanged off the rolls of barbed and razor wire, and the guards, unused to shooting at anything that shot back, had thrown down their rifles and were running for their lives. House stood up.

 _"Yes!"_ he whooped. _"YES!"_

"Dude, what are you doing?" Jack shouted. "Get down! You don't know who these guys are!"

"Isn't it obvious? They're the _cavalry!"_

Jack rolled his eyes. "Yeah, well," he muttered. "Like that's always been such good news for _my_ people."

* * *

Cuddy sat on the barstool in the airport lounge, sipping a Bloody Mary and listening for her boarding call. She'd waited as long as she could, but with no communications forthcoming, she'd finally taken a cab back out to McCarran International.

"Well, willya look at that!" someone said.

She looked up; over the bar, the Jazz/Pistons game had suddenly been replaced by what looked like a movie trailer for explosions and testosterone but was labeled _BREAKING NEWS._

Conversation in the bar stopped.

"Turn it up!" a guy said, and others echoed the request. The bartender touched a control, and the excited voice of a reporter came bursting through the set.

" -- and in this daring raid on the secret prison camp, it appears that the influence of the powerful Tritter family in this part of Nevada has been broken, or at the very least, dealt a serious blow!"

The reporter, a small woman clad in what looked like a bulletproof Kevlar vest two sizes too large for her and a black baseball cap with "PRESS" lettered across the front, whirled around, looking for someone to talk to.

"Is that Christiane Amanpour?" one of the bar patrons asked.

The guy next to him squinted at the screen. "Nah," he said. "Not horsey enough."

In the background, Cuddy could hear faint cries, see armed men in black flak jackets with "FBI" and "ATF" and "U S MARSHAL" stenciled across the back. They were pushing lines of prisoners, other men in uniform, their hands clasped behind their heads.

"Lieutenant! Lieutenant!" the reporter called, apparently having found an unwary victim. The Lieutenant, in full battle gear, looked intensely irritated.

"Lieutenant! Have you secured the camp? What did you find? Have you arrested the Warden yet? _What can you tell us?"_

Cuddy squinted suddenly. There was someone else in the background, getting closer to the TV camera ... someone who looked all too familiar.

"Hey! Are you the guy in charge here?"

The officer's head jerked around. "Who the hell are you?" he demanded.

"Oh, _God,"_ Cuddy breathed. _"House."_

* * *

"Who the hell are you?"

"Dr. Gregory House," House yelled. It was still extremely loud inside the camp, and what sounded like flash-bangs were going off not too far away. "I have reason to believe a friend of mine is being held here!"

"Lieutenant!" Another officer was suddenly next to House, panting. "We found the guy you wanted us to look for!"

"What? Who's this?" House asked.

"Is he alive?"

"I don't know, sir. He looks like he's in pretty bad shape."

 _"Shit!"_ Angrily, the Lieutenant pulled off his helmet, revealing a shock of bright red hair. "Come on -- you too, Doctor. We gotta get him out of there."

* * *

The first thought that came to House's mind when they hauled the man out of the hot, stinking pit in which he'd been imprisoned was of Michelangelo's _Pieta_. He was gaunt and filthy, his ribs showing clearly beneath the bruised and battered skin. He was naked, with ugly lacerations below his waist that obviously continued underneath his stiff, matted pubic hair. He bore the characteristically vicious blisters of electrical burns, and the insides of his thighs showed raised, angry marks that looked like insect bites and stings. His left ankle was swollen and bloody.

He caught a glimpse of the man's back and shoulders as the officers pulled him up, and saw the fresh and half-healed stripes of multiple lashings. The agents laid the man gently on the ground, and among all the other cuts and wounds, House saw the contusions and rope burns from the man's desperate struggles. His gaze drifted upwards, to the man's neck, the terrible bruises and torn skin ...

House's heart was in his mouth. This prisoner had all the marks, all the distinguishing signs of being brutally tortured over a number of days. And that meant this couldn't be Wilson. Because if it _was_ Wilson ...

"Oh, God," House whispered, and then, with an almost audible _snap!_ , time was moving again and people were shouting, and medics were crowding around Wilson.

 _"Pupils are fixed and dilated. Tachycardia, probable internal bleeding, jaundice, hypovolemic shock."_

"What's his core temp?" House snapped.

"Digital reads 106.7 -- bad enough but the real reading's probably higher," one of the medics replied. "Gotta get a rectal up him to tell for sure." He cursed as Wilson began to hyperventilate. "Fuck. Come on, bag this guy," he yelled. "And we need water over here!"

"Get those cuffs off," the Lieutenant growled. _"Get those fuckin' cuffs off!"_

Someone produced a universal key, and the handcuffs were quickly unlocked. House grimaced as Wilson's freed arms fell limply to his sides.

"Ambulance?" the Lieutenant asked.

"No time. We don't get him on the Pave Hawk, we're gonna lose him. Shit, all his veins are collapsed -- I can't get an IV in."

"Saphenous," House ordered.

"On it," the medic answered, moving towards Wilson's ankles.

"Water comin' through," someone yelled, and everyone leaned aside as a bucket of the cooling liquid was splashed over Wilson. As the water roiled away, the voices of the medics rose again in well-practiced chorus. Their voices blended, House's among them, until he couldn't distinguish one from the other.

The only person who was silent was Wilson.

"Where's the ice bags? I want the ice bags here, now!"

The gel-filled bags appeared, and the medics quickly thrust them under Wilson's armpits and into his groin.

"Are you pushing the Ringer solution? Because I don't like -- oh, _crap,_ buddy!"

Wilson had started to seize, his hands quivering and his heels drumming on the ground.

"Midalozam -- zero point zero five now, push it again every fifteen minutes."

"We're not gonna be here for fifteen minutes!"

"You're right -- tell the guys on the Pave Hawk. And where the hell _is_ that bird?"

As if on cue, there was a thunder of chopper blades overhead.

"Good job. Get this guy on the stretcher and get ready to winch him up. Hey, doc!"

House looked up, startled.

"Wanna take a ride on the big black bird? Tell your grandkids about it?"

"Go ahead," the Lieutenant said, looking at House. "I know who you are now. Wilson talked about you a lot."

"I don't understand," House said.

"I was here too. Undercover." The Lieutenant smiled wryly. "This was a huge operation, lots of personnel, and your friend came within a hairs-breadth of blowing the whistle two days early."

The big rescue helicopter was hovering overhead, and House watched as Wilson's stretcher was slowly winched up and gathered into its side.

"Tell Wilson," the Lieutenant shouted in House's ear, "that Tooey said he's sorry!"

"Sorry for what?" House yelled.

Tooey shook his head. "He'll know."

Then the harness was strapped around House's legs and torso, and he braced himself as the crank turned far above and he was lifted into the air.

A cool breeze ruffled his hair as he ascended. It was like riding some exotic carousel, a merry-go-round horse that ran as swiftly as the wind. It was like being on the back of the fastest motorcycle ever built. It was like flying.

He felt like Icarus, but he was determined not to let these wings melt.

  
~ [Chapter Eleven](http://community.livejournal.com/house_wilson/1611374.html?#cutid1)

  
 **NOTES:**  
Some fascinating information about the Native American leader Wovoka may be found [here](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wovoka).  
A Shoshoni-English dictionary, part of a larger project sponsored by Idaho State University, is [here](http://www.shoshonidictionary.com/shoshonidictionary.asp).  
The Native American story of Stonemother may be found [here](http://www.plpt.nsn.us/story.html).  
Articles on heat exhaustion, dehydration, and heatstroke are [here](http://www.emedicine.com/med/topic956.htm), [here](http://www.emedicine.com/ped/topic556.htm), [here](http://www.comgri.com/sport/articles/art_heat.html), and [here](http://www.aafp.org/afp/20050601/2133.html).  
An interesting write-up on the Pave Hawk helicopter may be found [here](http://www.af.mil/factsheets/factsheet.asp?fsID=107).


	11. </b>  Welcome to Wherever You Are

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Old enemies can turn up in the most unexpected places, and when those enemies are in positions of power ... all bets are off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is the end of _my_ version of this ficverse. Want to read more? [](http://blackmare-9.livejournal.com/profile)[**blackmare_9**](http://blackmare-9.livejournal.com/) has written what I'm happy to call Chapter Twelve of this story, and it's posted here: [Epilogue](http://community.livejournal.com/house_wilson/1611754.html?#cutid1). I urge everyone who followed this story to go give it a read. You won't regret it. And for everyone who might have been waiting to read [](http://deelaundry.livejournal.com/profile)[**deelaundry**](http://deelaundry.livejournal.com/)'s lovely interlude to this fic, [I Am Happy To See You](http://deelaundry.livejournal.com/53591.html) (rated NC-17), go, read, and spread the happiness of reading.

_**Welcome to Wherever You Are (11/11)**_  
Cross-posted to [](http://sick-wilson.livejournal.com/profile)[**sick_wilson**](http://sick-wilson.livejournal.com/)  
 **TITLE:** Welcome to Wherever You Are  
 **AUTHOR:** [](http://nightdog-writes.livejournal.com/profile)[**nightdog_writes**](http://nightdog-writes.livejournal.com/)  
 **PAIRING:** House-Wilson, strong friendship, other OCs  
 **RATING:** A strong "R".  
 **WARNINGS:** No.  
 **SPOILERS:** Yes, for the S3 Tritter Arc and how it ended.  
 **SUMMARY:** Old enemies can turn up in the most unexpected places, and when those enemies are in positions of power ... all bets are off.  
 **DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **AUTHOR NOTES:** Well, this is the end of _my_ version of this ficverse. Want to read more? [](http://blackmare-9.livejournal.com/profile)[**blackmare_9**](http://blackmare-9.livejournal.com/) has written what I'm happy to call Chapter Twelve of this story, and it's posted here: [Epilogue](http://community.livejournal.com/house_wilson/1611754.html?#cutid1). I urge everyone who followed this story to go give it a read. You won't regret it. And for everyone who might have been waiting to read [](http://deelaundry.livejournal.com/profile)[**deelaundry**](http://deelaundry.livejournal.com/) 's lovely interlude to this fic, [I Am Happy To See You](http://deelaundry.livejournal.com/53591.html) (rated NC-17), go, read, and spread the happiness of reading.  
 **BETA:** My awesome First Readers. Their patience, thoughtfulness, and words of encouragement keep me going. I will never be able to say enough good things about you guys.

  
 **Chapter Eleven**

  
 _It's noisy, so noisy inside the helicopter, and for a moment House can't understand how anyone could possibly communicate in this clattering whirlwind. Then someone hands him a helmet and he slips it on, and he's jacked into the internal comm system, hearing the sharp, staccato voices of the medics and pilots._

 _"We're good, we're good!" one of the medics shouts. "Go go go!"_

 _House grunts as he feels the Pave Hawk bank and accelerate. A surge of adrenaline makes him feel more alive than he has in years. He puts on a pair of latex gloves someone's thrust into his hands._

 _The medics are still working; they've ripped open the Velcro straps that held Wilson safe within his airborne cradle and are packing more of the icy gel bags around his body._

 _"We need a core temp!" someone barks, and House stares for a moment at the slicked rectal probe that's appeared in his right hand. He shakes his head and calls for a medic to lift Wilson's hips a little._

 _ **Full circle,** House thinks, but doesn't flinch as he slides the probe home._

  


* * *

  
"And then what happened?" Wilson asks.

 _You died,_ House wants to say. _The first of three times. You were slow-roasting from the inside out -- your core body temp was over 107 degrees and still climbing. Your heart stopped and we had to shock you back to life there in the belly of the bird._

"You _know_ what happened," he drawls. "You just like hearing about how everyone jumped to take care of you because they thought you were some kind of hero -- which you're not, by the way -- and how Cuddy drooled all over you and the mayor gave you a key to the city."

"I got a key?" Wilson pretends to peer around the hospital room. "I never saw it. Which city?"

"Loserville," House smirks.

Wilson huffs softly and drops his head back against the pillow. "You're just jealous of my excellent adventure," he says.

 _The pilots brought you to Nellis instead of UMC because the base was five minutes closer. Your heart had already quit once, so the flight surgeons didn't want to risk an ice bath -- they rushed you into the neurological ICU, put you into deep sedation._

House rolls his eyes. "Oh, yes," he says. "I so wanted to have the experience of working on a chain gang led by a refugee from _Cool Hand Luke,_ eating bologna sandwiches three times a day -- "

"Twice a day."

"Whatever. Not to mention being at the complete mercy of a gang of psychopathic wannabe Brownshirts, and the near-death experience of dehydration and extreme heatstroke. Yeah. I wish I could've been there."

 _Your liver function was shot to hell. You were in shock and presenting with pulmonary edema and multisystem organ failure. We were losing you. Again._

"I knew it," Wilson says. "Envy is an ugly thing, House. I hope you don't let it control you."

 _Your temperature wasn't coming down fast enough so we stuck a heat-exchange catheter in your left superior vena cava and pumped cooled saline through a closed loop. We forced you into diuresis because your renal system was about to crash. You were still dying._

"Tooey said to tell you he's sorry."

Wilson blinks at the sudden change of subject. "I know. You told me that too."

"Why?"

House notes how Wilson's eyes shift away and how he plucks at some loose threads on his blanket. It's been two weeks since Wilson's rescue, two weeks of a slow, painful recovery, and there are still some things House doesn't know because Wilson refuses to talk about them.

 _Your temp started to come down, but every time we tried to wean you off the endovascular cooling it went right back up. You were on a vent, so many tubes and monitors you looked like a broken puppet whose strings had been cut. It took five days for you to stabilize enough to take out the cath._

"It's not important now. Tooey's good. He did what he had to do." Wilson fingers his blanket some more, smoothes out a small mountain range of wrinkles. "Whatever happened to that Polish guy?"

It's House's turn to blink. "What Polish guy?"

"The guy you were with, the one who helped you find Camp Five. Jack. Jack Wovoka."

House sighs in mock exasperation. "He wasn't _Polish,"_ he grumbles. "He was -- " He stops, realizes he never found out exactly _what_ Jack was. He'd looked for him after things had calmed down, after it was clear Wilson was going to live. No one had known who he was talking about. "Well, he wasn't Polish," he concludes gruffly.

Wilson closes his eyes, and House thinks he's fallen asleep again. He's still doing a lot of that, and he's had some pretty vivid dreams that House has tried not to listen to. He's heard enough, though, to know that Wilson thought him dead, murdered by the same crazy Warden and merry band of thugs who'd stolen Wilson.

House looks around the hospital room, trying to keep the thought of Wilson's nightmares at bay. Instead he thinks how funny it is, what a big cosmic joke that he should be here on this Air Force Base where every fifth person reminds him of his dad. It hasn't been all bad, though. The docs of the 99th Medical Group play a mean game of poker, and he's met the pilot of the Pave Hawk who took them away from that particular circle of Hell -- a tall, lanky guy named Sheppard. House has managed to cajole him into taking him up almost every day. Skimming over the desert floor at 170 mph, scaring the bejesus out of jackrabbits and coyotes, pulse pounding in his ears and he thinks he would've done it, would have joined the Air Force to spite his Marine pilot father, if he could have done this one thing every day of his life.

Then Wilson's eyes open, and he's talking again, and House knows he's where he belongs.

"Hey, I heard they never caught the Warden."

House shifts in his chair. "No. Apparently somebody tipped him off, but they're still looking. Meanwhile, the Hellebore County Sheriff's Department is having to answer some pretty tough questions."

"Good," Wilson murmurs absently. "Bunch of bastards."

House doesn't say anything for a while, and neither does Wilson.

 _I didn't know if you'd be **you** when you woke up. If you woke up._

"So," Wilson says at last. He looks up at House with a shy, quiet smile. "Where do we go from here?"

House thinks for a moment, wonders if he should tell Wilson about the gun he's bought, that he intends to practice with every week -- no, twice a week -- at the local range. Just in case.

Because apparently while Wilson has been watching out for House all this time, trying to protect him, House had really been needing to protect Wilson.

 _You lived._

"Home," House says. "We go home."

  
~ fin

Drafted June 4th - July 8th, 2007

  
 _No, this is how it works  
You peer inside yourself  
You take the things you like  
And try to love the things you took  
And then you take that love you made  
And stick it into some  
Someone else's heart  
Pumping someone else's blood  
And walking arm in arm  
You hope it don't get harmed  
But even if it does  
You'll just do it all again_  
\-- from _On the Radio,_ Regina Spektor

 **NOTES:**  
The intravascular medical procedure performed on Wilson is real; an absolutely fascinating case history is [here](http://ccforum.com/content/9/5/R498).  
Nellis Air Force Base is very real. Their website is [here](http://www.nellis.af.mil/).  
Complete lyrics of Regina Spektor's _On the Radio_ may be found [here](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/reginaspektor/ontheradio.html).

Want to read more in this ficverse? [](http://blackmare-9.livejournal.com/profile)[**blackmare_9**](http://blackmare-9.livejournal.com/) and [](http://deelaundry.livejournal.com/profile)[**deelaundry**](http://deelaundry.livejournal.com/) have written into it, here:  
[I Am Happy To See You: An Interlude](http://deelaundry.livejournal.com/53591.html), by [](http://deelaundry.livejournal.com/profile)[**deelaundry**](http://deelaundry.livejournal.com/). Rated NC-17.  
[Impossible](http://community.livejournal.com/house_wilson/1611754.html), by [](http://blackmare-9.livejournal.com/profile)[**blackmare_9**](http://blackmare-9.livejournal.com/).  
[Never Saw It Coming](http://community.livejournal.com/house_wilson/1611754.html), by [](http://blackmare-9.livejournal.com/profile)[**blackmare_9**](http://blackmare-9.livejournal.com/).  
[Light Fuse and -- ](http://community.livejournal.com/house_wilson/1621110.html#cutid1), by [](http://blackmare-9.livejournal.com/profile)[**blackmare_9**](http://blackmare-9.livejournal.com/).

  



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